To Kill a Sparrow
by Minishini
Summary: It hasn't been long since Sparrow escaped Lucien's Spire, and Lucien has taken out a contract on her life. The Highwaymen's Guild is out for blood, and with the aid of the assassins they may well succeed. FemSparrow X OC; Fable II Verse
1. Chapter 1

Title: To Kill a Sparrow  
Summary: It hasn't been long since Sparrow escaped Lucien's Spire, and already the corrupt lord has taken it upon himself to end her life. The Highwaymen's Guild is out for blood, and with the assistance of the Assassin's Society they very well may succeed. But when the assassin sent to take her life moves in the for the kill, he finds himself unable to complete his contract.  
Chapter: 1/?-Story is done, just haven't broken it down into chapters yet!  
Rating: Mature.  
Series Warnings: This series contains some concepts that readers might find disturbing. As is the norm for any of my stuff, there's a lot of cursing and a lot of smut (hooray, smut!). But the smut in this particular story contains a wee bit of fetishism (haha awesome right?) and some questionable...erm, intents. Some viewers may not like the OC in this story. I, for one, am in love with him. This story is definitely for mature audiences.  
Chapter Warning: Just mild swear words if I remember right.  
Pairings: FemSparrow x OC  
Disclaimer: Fable, Fable II, etc, belongs to LionHead Studios. I make no profit from this work of tribute to my favorite NPCs in the series. Please don't sue me, grumpy British game developers. :(  
A/N: This started off as a little drabble, and turned into a full blown story after I fell head over heels in love with this OC. I tried to stay as true to the video game as possible, in regards to places, plot lines, and characters. But much of it I've taken upon myself to expand upon, considering I think LionHead has done a shabby job actually giving the world of Albion depth and character development. I still love them, though! My distances and travel times are off, and I don't care. :D

* * *

She knew someone was following her, but she hadn't been able to tell who. Every time she had turned around in the crowded markets of Bowerstone her wary eyes had searched the crowds and found every hidden nook and cranny that she could, but not once had she seen him. Even her trusty little dog knew he was there—the mutt had even barked at him once or twice. But an enemy that remains unseen is an enemy that can not be fought.

So she had no choice but to go about her days as if nothing were wrong. She was a Hero, after all; there was little in modern day Albion that could harm her. And definitely not by some mere human. It was a lesson his brothers in the Society had learned the hard way, time and time again. If she had a shadow that meant her ill, she would deal with it as she had the others: a swift and untimely death.

But, he had to admit, he had been surprised that she felt comfortable enough with his stalking presence to even leave Bowerstone's town limits. And she didn't just make the short journey to Castle Fairfax's gardens. Oh, no, not her. She went on a full length journey on bandit-plagued roads to Oakfield.

He had barely been able to keep up with her while remaining undetected. Bandits and hobbes alike had tried to take him down after their kin had failed with her. It had proved increasingly difficult to dispatch of the poor bastards without raising too much noise for her to hear, and use as an excuse to double back on the trails.

Be that as it may, she knew he was still there. Occasionally, he would find a bloodied note pinned to a bandit corpse with a sharpened twig, the message more than whatever she had scrawled on the sullied sheets of paper. _Friend of yours?_ One had inquired. _I hope you're not scared of dark places_, another seemed to laugh at him.

But he had been smart enough not to follow her into the hobbe cave she found. For one, he hated hobbes and the corruption they represented. They were a defilement of the last remaining innocence in Albion—of children, young, innocent and naïve. And two, there was no guarantee that he could stay out of her eye sight in a cave. She could be waiting around any dark corner, or even be heading out while he was stuck in a narrow bit of tunnel with nowhere to go but back the way he had come. Then he would have been in front of her, and that pesky dog would have run him down as surely as not.

Sparrow—Lionheart, whatever she was being called these days—didn't keep him waiting long. She was in and out quick enough to justify his decision not to follow, flooding him with relief that it had indeed been the right one. The concept that she could disappear out some hidden exit had crossed his mind, and left him anxious as he hid in the thick boughs of a tree over shadowing the entrance. It was a good perch, leaving him a gap in the foliage just wide enough for him to watch as she emerged victorious from the cave with a troll's head dragging in the ground behind her.

Standing head and shoulders taller than even the tallest men of Albion, she was an imposing figure. As a hero, her power was directly proportional to her height and size. She was built heavy, not some dainty little house wife that fancied herself an adventurer. She was the real thing. Thick muscle from head to toe, hidden by rather upper class clothes that probably had never seen a speck of dust until she had bought them. Soft leather boots broken in by miles upon miles of hard road travel, coated in dirt and blood and who knew what else. Dark men's breeches on long legs, just as dirty as her boots.

She wore a well kept highwayman's trench coat over her lady's blouse, a fact that did not lose its irony on him. A trophy she had taken from the last man the Highwaymen's Guild had sent after her on Lucien's contract, as was the tri-point hat atop her head. The bright crimson mask that hid her face, however, had been taken from those that came before him. Those the Society had sent.

Odd, though, how she had managed to fold the mask so that it covered her _entire_ face. It left her an even more intimidating figure with a blood red face void of any features.

A week he had been following her, and never had he seen her without her garb meant to intimidate the strongest of men into leaving her alone. Never had he seen an inch of skin, other than what the eye holes cut into her mask left her to look out of. Bright blue eyes—eerily blue—looked up to regard his tree calmly.

Did she see him? Had he been caught so easily?

But no, her eyes never focused on his. Never found the little gap in the leaves that he hid behind.

The dog whined, and she shook her head to clear her mind. With a short laugh she continued on the path she had set on, dragging the mammoth troll head behind her by its mossy hair.

And he followed. To the Rookridge inn where she presented the head to the owner as a trophy to hang over his bar. Back up the steep mountain path, where she stood at the fork in the road glaring towards the ruins of a tower and the temple built beneath it. Fear did not sway him as she took the time to write him another note, before she decidedly turned down the right fork toward Oakfield. She was his mark, after all, and he knew her better than most.

_I should have led you to the Shadow Cult_, her note had said, and he laughed. No doubt the cult would have loved that, considering ever since she killed their leader they had been reduced to a meager handful of priests too scared to gather en masse. They would have taken any sacrifice from her quite gladly, their shadows searching out his shadows until he was dragged kicking and screaming to whatever torturous death awaited him.

But she was Sparrow the Lionhearted, or Pure, or whatever the townsmen called her. And she would not deceive him so, no matter his intentions. No, if death were to come to him it would come from her own hands. Swift. Merciless. Righteous. And then he would be buried, as she buried each that came before him, and left with a marked grave to haunt for the rest of eternity.

So she led him to Oakfield, where the mayor greeted her happily despite the gore her clothes were covered in. The fat pig managed to convince her to pose for a sculptor—some noble had commissioned the town to produce a statue of her to be erected outside a tower in Brightwood. He took advantage to disappear for a while to bathe in a nearby stream and change out of his clothes.

While he stood up to his waist in the cold mountain waters that drained into the sea, naked as the day he was born, the dog found him. He watched the beast as it paced the shore, nose sniffing up a storm over his road dusted clothes even as it kept wary eyes on him. It did not trust him—as it shouldn't. He had been sent to kill the beast's master, after all.

Sighing, he sank into the water until it was up past his nose. Holding his breath, he simply watched the creature rifle through his meager possessions. Could it swim?—he wondered absently as he tread water. He had no weapons on him if the beast decided to attack him. And being in the water so, he had no Will powers that would help him dispose of it. Not that he wanted to—he wasn't ready to move on the Hero, and surely the murder of her pet would force her into action where he was concerned.

But the dog stayed on the shore until it found what it was looking for: his travel pack. Cursing, he tried to swim to shore to stop the damned animal as it let out a cheerful yip and started trotting back up the steep bank, head held tall and proud with his pack in its mouth, and tail wagging victoriously like a battle banner.

A rifle went off, the bullet whizzing into the water by his head, and he swore again, coming to a halt in the water with a big splash as he turned to find the marksmen. Stupid, stupid him! It would be his luck that he'd shirk his duties long enough to succumb to his vanity, and be caught by some desperate lot of bandits or some such—

"I thought of having him take your clothes, but I'm not so cruel as to leave a man naked in these parts," a voice laughed from the cliffs far above his head. Growling, he immediately sank back into the water until it was up to his eyes, as he back pedaled enough to look up at the Hero.

Had she seen enough of him to know what he looked like? Would she be able to pick him out of a crowd now? His biggest weapon had been that he was a stranger, unassuming and an enigma. He had been able to hide in plain sight, able to walk beside her in the markets when the dog was off digging in people's gardens. Could he still?

The mutt found her and dropped his pack at her feet, barking happily as it rolled around in the grass, elated at the good job it had done. She was still in her travel stained clothes, rifle aimed at his head as she watched him for a moment. Laughing, she snatched his pack up and spun around on a heel, disappearing into the thick woods atop the cliff.

He had not been too happy about the whole thing. What game was she playing at, leaving him alive when she knew he was after her life? It would have been so simple to put a bullet between his eyes while he was naked and vulnerable, unarmed, and unable to even run. Then she would not have had to worry about him killing her in her sleep, or something.

He wondered as he scrambled onto the banks, pulling his clothes on as quickly as he could despite his dripping wet body. Normally, he would have taken time to bask in the sun and let it dry him. But not when she was nearby, and for all he knew coming to finish what she had left undone.

She did have a tendency to dispatch of men like him face-to-face, with sword rather than gun. She saved her bullets for other marksmen and trolls, not for simple assassins. Who said chivalry was dead?

So he hurried, clothes sticking to his hide uncomfortably as he disappeared into the underbrush to circle around his bathing site. He made no sound in the bushes, stepping softly and carefully to avoid rustling dead leaves or breaking brittle branches. Sticking to the dappled shadows, he searched the whole area for her and found nothing aside from a set of foot prints accompanied by paw prints in a dirt trail heading back to town.

Even knowing she was gone, he kept hidden as he circled around Oakfield to some outlying farm. The whole time he kept an eye on his back, just waiting for the dog to attack or to see her drawing her blade while his back was turned. But she never came as he stole a pair of breeches and a light shirt from an unwatched clothesline. Boots were harder to find, forcing him to break into the small farm house to dig through a closet while the owner was out tending his fields. Even then, the shitty pair of light brown work boots was too small for his feet—he was not a small man to begin with.

Surprise the clothes even fit.

But he crammed his feet into them anyway, scowling past the winces as he disappeared back into the woods with his set of black assassin's clothes folded up in a bed sheet he had also stolen from the clothesline, and expertly turned into a back pack. And as he found the first path towards town, he switched into an actor's role.

He was just a simple farmer as he strolled into Oakfield. A stranger to the villagers, of course, but it was not uncommon. Oakfield was a large agricultural hub in Albion, and farmers from all over came for seed if their last harvest had been poor. So he smiled and greeted every man, woman, and child he saw as he entered town. He was friendly, courteous, and even faked the country bumpkin accent as he stopped to chat with stall vendors and other farmers.

How was the weather so far this year? Good rain? Nice to hear. You expecting a larger harvest than normal? Excellent! My farm got drowned out last year, left all my corn with that damned fungus. Couldn't sell half of it to a pig farmer, if I wanted. Know where I can get some seed grain? Was hoping to cram in a late wheat harvest this year.

So he melded into the evening market crowds. No one seemed to notice that he didn't buy anything for his evening meal, despite his long talks with one stall vendor after another. No one noticed him pocketing an apple or two, either. But when the eyes of the crowd turned from their shopping to something more interesting, he was among them. He was just another farmer in the horde as the villagers laughed and cheered, rushing towards the Hero.

She was meandering through the crowd, eyes laughing as she accepted the congratulations from one villager after the next on her latest accomplishment. The rumor mill hadn't brought wind of her exploit over the cave troll, he knew, or else they would have been buying her beers and asking for her to recite the tale.

No, instead they left her to her shopping. The grown ups at least did. The children would not leave her alone, and she didn't seem to mind. They clung to her coat, laughing and hammering her with question after question as she bought supplies for her dinner. Laughing right along with them, she regaled them with outlandish tales blown much out of proportion of her adventures, and they drank it up like their life depended on it.

One girl, perched on the Hero's shoulders, seemed content to simply sit up there and watch the world go by.

Scowling to himself, he stayed back in the crowds, following at a safe distance. Children, fawning over a Hero that intimidated even the most hardened of men? And they seemed no more scared of her than she was of them. They worshipped the ground she walked on. Clung to her every word. Begged for toys and autographs. And she gave them readily.

They left her when she came to the end of the market street, all except for the little girl on her shoulders. He disappeared into the tall corn fields on either side of the path as she turned towards a farm house off in the distance, her dog trotting happily at her heels. Frowning, he shadowed them to the plain house with its simple thatched roof, watching as she let herself into the fenced off yard without a word.

A new horde of children assaulted her, bare foot and covered in dirt from the fields as they all laughed and exchanged hugs. That was the first time he heard the word "mommy" thrown out.

He froze where he hid in the field, heart dead in his chest as he watched a woman with her children—not just a Hero. They were so happy. So innocent in their reunion after a long time spent apart. She proffered toys and gifts from her pack to each of them—all _ten_ of them, including the one on her shoulders. To the oldest, a boy of no more than fourteen, she gifted a short sword that he clung to his chest proudly.

The assassin sat down heavily in the corn field. The Highwaymen's Guild had not included this in their report when they went to the Assassin's Society for help. They had not said she was married, with children, or anything. They had not even said that she owned a farm in Oakfield, not that it would have mattered now. He was the best the Society had.

But he had never killed a mother. Refused it. He would not be responsible for leaving children motherless in a harsh world such as this.

He lay back in the dirt and closed his eyes, feeling the warmth of the sun shining down on his face through the tall corn. How was he to return to the guild with a contract left unfulfilled? He had never done that before. He had a perfect record. Lucien had paid him generously to carry out this order, up front and in full. But he could not kill her now, not after seeing her children, and how happy they were with her. He could not take away their happiness.

Sitting up abruptly, he watched as the horde disappeared into the farm house. Ten children. Eldest well into his teens, and youngest no more than five. But she had been in the spire for the past ten years. And before that, she had only been a thorn in Lucien's side for a year, at most. How had she managed to have ten children in eleven years while slaughtering hordes of hollow men, bandits, and hobbes? How had she managed to have a baby girl while in the spire?

Scowling, he circled around the farm house to the back side. Picnic tables were set out to accommodate the whole family as a middle-aged woman smiled and set the table, children running around screaming and play fighting as their Hero mother watched, sipping at a beer stein. And then he noticed the boy with red hair, wrestling with another with black. A girl with green eyes and blonde hair fiddled with a lute at her mother's side, while a little boy with brown skin and hair as black as night played in the dirt at their feet.

Adopted. So they were adopted, then. But that did not change a thing. They were still her children. He would still be a home wrecker.

A tall man joined the lot, standing tall and proud as he went to sit across from Sparrow. The assassin watched as tension built in her shoulders, and even in the children.

"You couldn't wash up before coming?" he asked her innocently enough.

"Dear," the woman chided him slowly, a warning to be polite.

"I didn't think I had time before dinner," Sparrow answered, voice cold and emotionless.

"So you figured it'd be okay for the children to see you covered in gore like that?" the man huffed irritably, gesturing to her with an angry wave of his hand.

"It is nothing they have not seen before," she remarked.

"I like it," the girl at her side spoke up without looking away from the lute strings. "This way, we know mom really was away saving people."

Sparrow ruffled her hair affectionately.

"Well it's disgusting," the man huffed.

Sighing, she gave her daughter a one-armed hug before standing. "I'll leave, then. I'll be in town for a while, the children can come visit once I've bathed."

Children tried to pretend that their mother wasn't fighting with who obviously was their father. They tried not to let the tears in their eyes fall at the knowledge that she was leaving so soon after she had arrived. Even the five year old with copper hair was strong as she hugged her mother's legs before she disappeared back through the house.

In his mind, the assassin burned an image of the man in his head, before slipping back around the house to keep track of Sparrow.

What kind of person was she? he thought as they made their way through back village roads to a house tucked amongst a copse of trees in the midst of the fields. A Hero on a mission to stop Lucien's spire from being built, a mission of vengeance just as much as it was to save the world. And yet she adopted orphans and kept a family squirreled away in Oakfield. She played with children while covered in gore, and no one cared except for that man.

An ex-husband? Undoubtedly, or else she would not leave the children with him.

The spire took a lot from her it seemed, other than ten years and much of her sanity.

Sparrow unlocked her large farm house and paused in the doorway, even as the mutt pranced inside past her legs. Hand braced on the door frame, she turned ever so slightly to cast an angry glare in his direction. Not at him—she still could not pick him out of the shadows when he was hidden—but in his general area. Snarling under her breath, she tore his pack off her back and flung it towards him in a rage.

"Leave, if you have any decency and sense of self-preservation!" she roared, and birds fled from their perches in the trees around them. She didn't wait for him to respond, before disappearing into the darkness of her home and slamming the door shut behind her.

He didn't move for a long time as he watched the house, expecting candle light to illuminate the dark windows. But they never did, and she never came out as the sun set and left him in the dark. Finally, he moved and found his pack among the trees and underbrush. Muttering to himself under his breath, he retreated a good distance back into the woods to set up a shelter.

He didn't find her note until well into the night, when he lay on a bed of pine needles unable to sleep. She had pinned it to a package of jerky that hadn't been in his pack before, the words sketched out with a bit of charcoal on a crisp sheet of paper with the mayor of Oakfield's emblem engraved at the top. He could barely make the words out in the moon light.

_Deft set of fingers on you, if you managed to steal this back._

He snorted with laughter and folded the note up, tucking it back into his pack. So she had anticipated him stealing it, had she? He would have, if he had found a moment among the market crowd to do so. It was what he had planned.

Laughing, he pulled his travel cloak around him and rolled over on his hard bed of dirt and pine. He would figure it all out in the morning, when he didn't have visions of those mismatched children and their peculiar mother in his head.

They had already been orphaned once. But they had a father and two mothers now. They could do without the Hero, couldn't they?

* * *

Coming up next: The assassin strikes! What will Sparrow do?

As always, please review and send comments. I live off your feedback.


	2. Chapter 2

Title: To Kill a Sparrow  
Chapter: 2  
Rating: Mature++  
Chapter Warning: Cursing, murderous intent, and smutty hate sex (sorta).  
Pairings: FemSparrow x OC  
Disclaimer: Fable, Fable II, etc, belongs to LionHead Studios. I make no profit from this work of tribute to my favorite NPCs in the series. Please don't sue me, grumpy British game developers. :(  
A/N: I was going to try and be patient and upload chapter 2 in a few days, but I just couldn't.

* * *

The dog sat across the cook fire from him while he tended a pot sitting on the embers. He watched it just as warily as it watched him, wondering what the hell the beast was up to. It was a clever animal, much cleverer than any dog had a right to be. It was smart enough to know that he had been stalking its mistress with the intent to take her head. Smart enough to steal his bag when she asked it to.

And yet it had been harassing him for the past few days while he camped in the woods outside her house, watching and waiting. It was inevitable, he supposed, that the animal would find him. Yet when he woke that first morning with the dog barking at him and trying to steal the jerky from his pack, the Hero hadn't been there. Hadn't been there at all when the mutt came around to beg scraps whenever he ate, after that.

With a huge sigh, he tossed it his last strip of jerky. He hadn't eaten a single piece of it, not trusting her not to lace it with something to make his life miserable or even kill him. Even when the dog seemed happy and healthy eating it, he refrained. It felt odd. Wrong, really, to have a mark give him food. None had ever done so much as give him a headache with a blow to the head while he killed them. And yet here she was, willingly letting him stalk her while she insured he kept well fed.

The dog had a tendency to bring him racks of ribs or lamb legs to cook. Either the beast stole it or its lady master had him act as a messenger of sorts.

Growling, he buried his face in his hands, slipping his fingers under his mask to rub vigorously at his eyes. This woman was a headache. A huge, unwanted headache. Her and her children could rot in the deepest pit of hell, as far as he was concerned, just because they couldn't make this as easy as all his other marks.

He had killed men and women alike over his career as an assassin, and quite definitely enjoyed each and every murder. Slavers, corrupt governors and politicians, guards with a penchant for abuse, he had killed them all. Had even taken great delight choking the life out of a woman who seemed innocent enough on the outside, but who had drowned all of her children but one. The survivor had taken the contract out on her head, and he had been happy enough to do it for free.

Sparrow was no innocent. He knew her record as surely as any other. She killed in cold blood when the need arose—there were plenty of spire guards burned at the pyres when she escaped that place. She had slain many of his brothers when they came to finish the same contract he was on. Many a bandit and highwayman were dead now, because of her. She was as much a murderer as he was.

But they killed the same people. Killed for many of the same reasons. The most innocent person she had delivered to death had been Lucien's old butler, and only after the man had coerced gold out of her for the information he had.

He could not justify killing her because her morality was suspect. She never harassed merchants, never tried to bribe guards or politicians. Hell, she never even raised her voice to children.

But he had a contract. He had a perfect record to keep in mind, and Lucien's wrath if he returned refusing to fulfill it. The brotherhood would kill him if Lucien wished it.

And he couldn't just disappear into the wilds, or meld back into society. He had a corrupt mind, a dark heart that would never let him live peacefully or happily among the masses. The need to kill was in his blood now, a dark presence that yearned to be satisfied every time he took a contract. He loved what he did, too much so to risk losing it. If he went back to being a simple merchant's son, there would be no guild to justify his murders when he killed the first asshole he came across.

He wouldn't have the excuse that it was his job, to keep the world from seeing how much of a monster he really was.

She had to die, plain and simple. Mother of ten or not, she was a risk to the life he had grown so accustomed to. Innocent, a Hero of the people, whatever she was, she had to die.

And soon, before her kindness stilled his hand even longer.

But the damned children! They haunted her place as stubbornly as the most malicious of poltergeists. A day had not passed where one of them was not clinging to her like she was life itself. They followed her everywhere, happy and innocent and naïve. At night, they had slumber parties and bon fire dinners. The older ones she taught the sword and bow, laughing and loving as they put caution to the wind and assaulted her ruthlessly with their wooden practice swords.

She was as good a mother as any Hero could hope to be. The children were happy. But she was not, and he could not be while he was forced to watch.

He couldn't kill her while they were around—he refused it. He didn't want her children to remember their mother as a battered and lifeless corpse with no head on its shoulders. They should remember her as they saw her now, a figure larger than life and their hero no matter what anybody said.

Muttering under his breath, he took the pot from the embers and set it in the dirt by his feet. His appetite was gone now, but he would eat when the stew cooled, anyway. The dog would get the bones, as it had every time he cooked for the past week. And when the sun set, he would retire to his growing bed of pine needles, trying not to think of the woman with her children or the growing stack of notes she left him scattered through the woods, or pinned to her dog's daily gift of food.

**XXXX**

Adrenaline coursed through his veins as he stood, still and silent in the darkest shadows of the woods. Excitement tingled in his fingers and toes, and made his breath come in short little gasps. His heart was pounding in his chest, making his head feel light with anticipation.

Tonight was the night. Weeks of patient stalking would finally pay off. He would deliver her to death, fulfill his contract, and live the rest of his life doing what he did best.

She had come home only a few short hours ago as the sun set, leaving each of her children at her ex-husband's house after the two of them had gotten into a heated argument. He hadn't been close enough to hear what over, but when she stormed out of the house she had walked right past him without a second glance. The dog's whining as it ran to his feet, dressed in his stolen farmer's clothes, wasn't even been enough to alert its angry mistress of the assassin's presence.

And so he had watched, patiently hopeful as he waited for her to go to bed. The children never came as she ate by herself on her door step. The husband never showed up. No one. Nothing. And she had retired to her bed alone when darkness fell.

His legs tingled and he moved, darting from shadow to shadow across the yard as he moved in on the house, as silent as death itself. His boots made no sound on the dirt and grass. Hands steady, he turned the door knob to her house slowly, so as not to jostle the metal pieces. The door came open much slower, so as not to creak. And when he took his first step into her den, he made it longer than normal so as to avoid the creaky foot board just inside the door.

The house was silent, with only the rhythmic ticking of an old grand father clock to break the monotony. Slowly he prowled through the bottom floor of her house, checking each and every room for anything amiss—or for his target. The foyer was empty and silent, dark wooden furniture standing their night vigil alone and barren without a child draped across them. The large dining room held no life, void of the mistress and family that made it a place of warm dinners and rowdy card games.

He ran his fingers along the desertscape of her kitchen counter, imagining her cooking a dinner for her brood at the cold stove while sun shone through the empty panes of glass to illuminate a mother in her warmest moments: feeding her children. The adrenaline took a sharp dive and left him calm, no longer hungering for the release of a kill. It was a sobering reality, being in her house where children had laughed and played only this morning.

Come tomorrow, the town guard would have the place blocked off from curious villagers with watchful eyes. They would try to sneak her body away without the children seeing. And the house would become a place of great mourning. No more family dinners at the table. No card games. No couch forts.

He took the steps one at a time, easing his weight onto each with all the patience in the world. Never being in the house before, he didn't know which would creak or protest his every step. So it took him an agonizing eternity to climb what normally would have taken him a few seconds. The dog was draped across a rug at the top, and only stirred in its dreams as he stepped over it.

How fortunate for him, he supposed, that the Hero would have no forewarning from the mutt.

But then he was in the great loft that served as one giant bedchamber, littered with empty sleeping bags and pillows from the children's last slumber party. It was a rather barren place aside from that, with little furniture. Trophies were mounted on every wall though, personal tokens that she had taken from each of her adventures. A tall dresser stood against one wall, a set of drawers on another. No, being a traveler wouldn't leave her with many possessions, would it?

His room at the guild was just as barren.

Sparrow was in her bed, blankets pulled over her head and chest rising slowly with her every breath. Elation soared through him—how fortuitous for him! None of his brothers had been able to come so close before, without the mutt alerting the woman to their presence. None of them had been able to sneak up to her bedside, as he did now.

His breath started coming short again, in little quiet pants as he looked down at her. A mane of hair peaking above the covers and spread over the pillows was all he could see—much more than he had ever seen of her before. He wanted to see more. Wanted to see the face that she hid, before it was frozen in a mask of death.

But he knew better than to take the pleasure. It would give away his benefit of surprise. Surely she would wake if he tried to pull the covers back just enough.

His hand was hovering over the blankets, though, trembling with excitement. He curled it into a fist to stop himself, leather gloves creaking as he did.

And she woke at the sound, rounding on him in a flurry of movement with a sword she must have been sleeping with. He barely had time to draw his own from it's sheathe at his waist in time to block her attack. The impact made his hands and wrists numb, the reverberations of it going up his arms through his every nerve.

Wild blue eyes barely took the time to regard him before she attacked again, rising from her bed, sword a silver blur in the night. She was fast, and strong, but so was he. He kept up with her, blocking and parrying her every attack as they danced across the floor, barely managing to keep their feet from being tangled in the mess of sleeping paraphernalia.

He was silently awed, slightly distracted as he took the time to memorize her face. Fierce blue eyes, glowing in the darkness of her room, glared at him from a soft, round face. Thin, arched brows were drawn in anger, her full pink lips twisted in a snarl as she attacked him quite ruthlessly. Her hair—black as night, deeper than a raven's black—fell in a tumble of loose curls around her face that swung with her every move.

And a pattern of bright glowing blue lights burned from her skin. It snaked like veins from her face, down her neck and across the rest of her body. They were bright, pulsating eerily with a power he had only become vaguely familiar with himself.

"You picked the worst time!" she screamed, voice laced with anger and hatred as she swung. He barely managed to dodge to the side, watching with wide-eyed wonder as her blade shattered the heavy oak dresser against the wall. His body moved without thinking, his hand darting through the air to punch her square in the jaw.

Her feet staggered away from him. She hadn't been expecting his strength—strength that mirrored her own. She hadn't been anticipating a man as large as he was as he pinned her to the wall, sword left abandoned on the floor as he wrapped a hand around her throat and the other knocked her blade away. She had been expecting just another of his brothers, a simple human man with nothing to set him apart from the rest other than an insatiable blood lust.

She screamed in frustration, trying to wrench herself free. His grip just tightened on her throat, his body pressing harder to hers to keep her from moving. She spat curses and oaths at him as he simply stood there, eyes drinking in the webbing of blue light that covered her entire body. He was amazed to see that they showed only where the skin was thinnest—over veins, places prone to be most sensitive. They even disappeared under the cloth of her bra and panties. Were her breasts and secret places marked so?

He hadn't noticed her fall still, panting heavily with her fury as he inspected her. Didn't notice her watching him as closely as he was watching her.

"You're a Hero," she blurted at last, breaking his fascination with her body. Frowning, he shook his head slightly to both clear his head and deny her statement. "I can see them on you," he could feel her voice vibrate through her neck under his hand. "You don't use Will often, but enough that they've started showing."

Now he knew why she kept her face covered—why she kept every inch of her covered from wandering eyes. He glared at her silently, but her eyes were at his own throat where his clothes left him exposed. In the darkness, she could probably see the light lines webbing up his neck. It was the only place where one could easily see the blue light that had started growing on him a few years ago. In day light, they were still invisible.

She laughed, letting her head fall back against the wall as she gazed up at the ceiling. "Stupid, how I had assumed there were only four of us left."

Still he kept his tongue in check, watching patiently as she laughed some more. Was she crazy, he thought, to be laughing when she was prone to his crushing grip? He could kill her so easily right now, sap the breath from her lungs…drain the life from her veins…

"Are you here to kill me, or because you are curious what will happen to you?" she smiled sadly, head resting against the wall as she watched him. "It must be scary, growing up with the Will in your veins and not knowing why. Not knowing how to control it."

His fist tightened on her throat as a silent warning, making her laugh again.

"No, no, you're right. You came for the bounty on my head, and found something you weren't looking for, didn't you?"

He scowled, and she kept smiling.

"Yes, that's it, isn't it? Now you know the cost of using that power in you. And you weren't expecting the children either, were you?"

He took a deep breath, trying to choke back the anger that was rising in his chest. She was starting to annoy him, starting to irritate him with her spot on assumptions about him.

"That's why you waited until tonight," she spoke softly, as if realization were finally dawning. "Didn't want to scar them, huh? I thank you, then."

Shit. He didn't want her thanks. Didn't want to see in her eyes that she meant it. He was here to kill her, for fuck's sake.

"I had hoped you were a highwayman," she muttered in the darkness. "That you were simply waiting to ambush me on the roads, like all the others. I see now that you're an assassin. That's not your guild's style."

A slight inclination of his head told her she was right.

"Your lot goes for the kill in broad day light," she smiled. "In the middle of crowded city streets. No point in an assassination if there are no witnesses to get the message, right? So why am I different? Why do I get a slit throat in the cover of night?"

"I don't cut throats," he murmured finally, voice low, deep, rumbling.

"Messy, isn't it?" she grinned suddenly. "You're a choker, huh? Must make it difficult for you to finish marks and get away."

He shrugged.

"Back to the silent treatment?"

"You're just trying to prolong your life. No one is coming to help you, Sparrow," he rumbled, grip shifting ever so slightly on her neck. He didn't notice it himself, but his thumb was starting to trace a trail of bright blue light on her throat.

"Then why do you not end it?"

Silence.

"You won't get a second chance. You know that, right?"

He snorted under his breath. "Why do you do it?"

"Do what?"

He nodded over his shoulder to an empty sleeping bag.

Her eyes softened as she looked at them all, a sea of empty beds. Last night, they had been full of children breathing softly in their sleep. Tomorrow, they would be empty still. And the days forever after that. "A few of them are mine," she whispered under her breath, trying to ignore his thumb stroking her throat. "The rest I found and kept."

Found? He quirked his head slightly, a silent question.

"Slavers. Bandit camps. Allie, the little girl? I found her a month or so ago. They had raped her, you know."

Anger flared in his veins.

"No girl of five should be used so. Ever."

"Why does he want to kill you?"

"Having second thoughts?"

"Answer me!" he roared in her face, eliciting a high pitched whine from the dog. He hadn't noticed the creature slink into the room. Hadn't notice it at their feet, watching silently.

"Lucien? Because I don't agree with him. Because he knows if he doesn't kill me, one of these days I will kill him," she replied heatedly, blue eyes burning with a hidden desire. He recognized the look—it was the same one he saw in his brothers' eyes, in his own eyes. The burning desire to take a life. "He's getting old, and his spire isn't done yet. It will take him years more, maybe even decades. He'll be on his death bed by the time it's complete.

"And still he thinks he can escape his own mortality. Do you know what it is he wishes to do with that damn spire?"

He was silent, fury burning in him in a slowly building fire.

"He's going to destroy this world," she said simply, a wry smile turning her lips. "Do you know what he does in that spire of his? The atrocities he commits?"

He was still.

"They bring women in by the boat load. The last Friday of every month. They are no more than slaves for the spire soldiers, simple toys to be played with to keep them somewhat placated."

Her words stoked the fire in his veins.

"The guards are collared with a device that makes them obedient to Lucien and his commodores. Every time we so much as thought of disobeying, it electrocuted us. Do you know how many times I was driven unconscious because I refused to kill a man?"

A slight shake of his head.

"A lot," she laughed. "I nearly died once when I managed to stay awake long enough to feed a handful of prisoners that were being starved to death. They were just laborers who refused to work. The unlucky ones that didn't get a chance to throw themselves from the spire before they were imprisoned."

He was shaking, now, with his pent up fury.

"I shouldn't have bothered," she spat angrily. "They died anyway. The only way out of that spire is to die. I'm the only person that's ever left with a heart still beating in their chest. Only to be done in by a Hero assassin! Hah!"

Snarling, he grabbed her with both of his strong hands and spun her around. To her credit, she didn't make a sound as he slammed her against the wall, one hand going back to her neck to keep her where he wanted her. Furiously, he pulled her hair from her neck and stepped back far enough to look at her. A network of scars overlaid the blue patterns on her back, fierce slashes that could only come from harsh whippings.

She was littered in scars, he saw now as he took the time to look for them. Her hands, all up her arms. That was a given, considering her talent with the sword. Few that worked a blade ever escaped fights without receiving a knick or two. Her body was pock marked with fierce circular scars, from wounds inflicted by arrows, bolts, or bullets. Hobbes had bitten at her legs. A balverine had sliced her sides.

She was a warrior, all right. A savior of the people. Rescuer of little girls and boys. Who was he, to take her life just because he had a contract for it?

For Lucien. The man who undoubtedly was responsible for the whip scars on her back, and for a lot of scars that were not on the surface for any man to see.

He touched her shoulder gently, reverently, making his mind up on the spot as she simply stood there, glaring at him over her shoulder. With a short laugh of disbelief, he took another step away from her. One more and his hand fell from her neck. Shaking his head, he turned to leave but hardly took a step before a fist plowed into his cheek.

For fuck's sake, how stupid did he have to be?

They were both silent as they got into a down right dirty and tactless fist fight. Only the sound of pained grunts escaped them as they beat the shit out of each other, fists finding any exposed pieces of skin that they could. She broke his nose. He gave her a black eye. They busted each other's lips before they fell to the floor, cursing and rolling and trying to pin one another on the ground so they could wail on the unfortunate one unopposed.

The dog barked at them the whole time, darting in every now and then to bite at his heels. He did his best to ignore it, knowing the stupid beast was smart enough not to go for the throat when its master could easily accidentally wound it.

He went for an underhanded tactic, ripping off her bra in a successful attempt to distract her hands. She screamed in fury as instinct told her to cover up, only to leave her neck exposed. Both his hands wrapped around her blue-veined neck as he growled in victory, pinning her under his heavy weight at long last. She clawed at him, her nails tearing at his shirt as she tried to hit him in a more sensitive area. His body was on auto pilot though as her hands hammered at his sides with hollow, resounding booms.

He had to be all kinds of stupid for what he did, but he did it nonetheless. He kissed her, rough and hard and bloody as he used his face to keep her head pinned to the floor boards while his hands fought to grab her wrists. She bit him in response, followed by a swift head butt to his broken nose when he recoiled with a bellow of rage.

Stars danced in front of his eyes, but he didn't dare let her gain any more control than she had. He struggled to keep her neck under his hands—control the neck, and you took away her momentum. Restricted her movements. Kept her incredibly prone.

She hissed and screamed like a wild cat, bucking and writhing as he straddled her thighs to keep her from kicking at him. A beast stirred deep in his chest as he took a moment to breathe, fighting to keep the blackness off the fringes of his vision from the pain in his nose. But he could only manage to grab one of her wrists with his free hand and pin it under his knee. The other clawed at him ferociously.

He swayed for a moment, before shaking his head to clear it.

By then she had her free hand on the back of his head and his face halfway down to hers before the fact even registered. He had time to panic for only a split second—terrified that she was going to ram his poor nose into her face again and leave him unconscious on her floor from the pain—before his lips were crushing hers.

His head swam from something else entirely as the beast roared in his veins and her hand clawed at the buttons of his shirt, tearing the things from their stitched anchors. He groaned into her mouth, his hands abandoning their recent mission to pin hers long enough for him to tear his shirt from his shoulders. Her hands, now freed, went straight for his belt buckle.

What the hell was he doing, a part of his mind screamed in panic. But the beast was in control as he shifted against her, wedging himself between her legs to grind ferociously against the warmth between them. She gasped breathlessly, arching her back as his mouth bit a bloody trail along her jaw, down to her neck.

He roared angrily as the gods damned dog bit into his calf.

"Stay!" she screamed at the beast when he rounded on the creature, ready to choke the life out of it. "Rose, stay!"

He was going to kill that damned dog. He was going to—

She yanked his head back to her, her teeth biting down harshly on his busted lip and sufficiently regaining his full attention. Groaning, he kissed her and struggled to get hold of her wrists again. But she was quick, her deft hands pulling his belt from his breeches before darting back in to work at the button and zipper. The beast in him groaned and gave up, as his own hands tore the cloth from her hips as she pushed his black leather breeches from his own.

She was hot. So hot and terribly wet as he ground ruthlessly against her. Her gasp of pleasure sent a ripple of pleased masculine pride through him before he took her quite ruthlessly. One firm pump of his hips—that was all it took, before he was buried deep in her body and going blind from the feel of it.

His head throbbed with pain and pleasure as he groaned into her neck, his hands slamming into the hard wooden floor on either side of her head as he pumped into her. This was probably the stupidest thing he had ever done, but by gods it was by far the best. Her body felt incredible wrapped around him, hot and wet and gripping him ferociously tight. He could feel the strength in her, her power, her indomitable will.

Nails dug into his shoulders and he snarled at her, lips peeled back from his teeth as he glared at her. She glared back, blue eyes glowing as she raked her claws down his back. He shivered at the touch, the pain, and slammed his hips into her.

Gasping with pain and pleasure, she threw her head back with a groan. He pawed at her breasts with a massive hand, his fingers digging harshly into her tender skin as he groped at her. All the while his hips barraged her ruthlessly, pumping into her body in hard, quick thrusts that sapped both their breaths with every impact. Her legs wrapped around him and squeezed, tightening, crushing, slowing his pace.

With an irritated growl he grabbed one long thigh, pulling it up over his arm and against his chest, until he had her leg pinned between their bodies and her calf resting over his shoulder. She yelled to the ceiling, her other leg falling from his waist to keep herself balanced as he grinned at her. He bit her leg, snarling against her skin as he focused on fucking her brains out. He didn't want her to be able to walk after he was done with her. He wanted her to be sore for days after this.

Wanted her to wake up every morning for the next week to see the bruises from this night in the mirror. Every. Damned. Day.

You are not untouchable, they would say. You are not infallible. You are not an immortal Hero. You can be hurt. You can be bruised. You can have your brains fucked into a puddle of mush.

He bellowed to the rafters above his head as her nails scratched down his chest, leaving bright red welts in their path that mirrored his scars. She broke skin, drawing blood. You are not untouchable, her claws told him. You are no more infallible than I. No more immortal than the rest of us. I hurt you. I bruised you. And your brain isn't in the right place, either.

They sounded like two balverines in rut as he let his body take over where his brain had left off. All hissing, spitting snarls and growls. Loud moans and victorious bellows of pleasure accompanied each ferocious slamming of his cock into her tight embrace. She came for him, voice screaming hoarse as she writhed and bucked under him. And still he kept going, until she came again, and again, and again.

Sweat covered him from head to toe, making his skin slick and glisten in the moon light that filtered through her windows. She was just as sweaty and breathless, moving in undulating waves underneath him as she simply clung to him and rode out his wrath. They were reduced to grunts and groans and gentle pawing at each other's bodies.

He kissed her again, gentle and desperate with desire and need. His loins were burning for release, aching to have her body milk him dry. His hips slowed, no longer trying to punish her for some deed he was unaware of. Instead, he pumped into her with long, tender thrusts that made her heart ache in her chest.

She stroked his shoulders, her touch soft and delicate as she soothed the angry paths her nails had made on his skin. Her fingers kneaded his back, trying to work out the knots of tension that made all his muscles stand out in stark relief. Soft legs writhed against his, tangled with his own. She whispered soft things in his ear, dirty things that sent tingles through him from head to toe. And still he came no closer to coming, no closer to the relief he sought.

He groaned against her mouth as he kissed her again. Please, he silently begged any gods that watched over him, please, please, _please._

"Please," he whimpered and buried his face against her neck.

She didn't say a word as she grabbed his hands from her hip, her breast. Her eyes were soft and kind as he pulled back to stare at her incredulously as she put his massive paws to her throat, curling his fingers over the bruises that were already starting to show. She was completely and totally nonplussed as she slowly stretched out beneath him, her arms reaching above her head to cling to the foot of her bed.

His cock kicked and throbbed inside her, and his hands squeezed. She gasped, breasts heaving with her panting breaths. He watched the twin peaks of her nipples as he thrust into her, harder, faster with every pump. His eyes traced the bright blue lines that circled her tender breasts, networking outward in an ever expanding web. He watched as his hands squeezed her throat gently, felt her throat working to swallow and her voice purring. Felt her groans of pleasure vibrate through his touch, along his spine and directly to his cock.

He let out a long, agonized groan as he finally came, his hips pounding into the warm welcome of her body. His skin smacked against hers, his breath leaving in short gasps for what seemed like eternity as fire licked through his body. She took every bit he had to offer, moaning and coming with him.

And with one last grunt and a final thrust he was done. Spent. Completely and utterly exhausted as he laid over her panting for breath and smoothing the sore skin of her throat. Pain throbbed in his head from his broken nose, his busted lip, and a burning awareness that he was apparently a lot more fucked up than he ever thought.

* * *

And so ends chapter two. Let's see how our Hero deals with waking up next to her assassin next, eh?

As always, please and thanks for the reviews. =)


	3. Chapter 3

Title: To Kill a Sparrow  
Chapter: 3  
Rating: M  
Chapter Warning: Cursing  
Pairings: FemSparrow x OC  
Disclaimer: Fable, Fable II, etc, belongs to LionHead Studios. I make no profit from this work of tribute to my favorite NPCs in the series. Please don't sue me, grumpy British game developers. :(

* * *

A rooster crowed and the sun was rising, and still he sat awake in a strange bed with empty sleeping bags scattered on the floor around him. Sparrow was out cold, sleeping uneventfully, curled up against his side. She slept the sleep of the dead and the thoroughly exhausted. He should have been, too. His body was tired and worn out, his muscles already starting to ache with soreness. But ever since he carried her to the bed and she passed out, he had been sitting there staring blankly at a spec on the far wall.

He took an already messed up contract and fucked it up beyond all repair. What had he been thinking, kissing her in the first place? How could he have let her take off his clothes? How could he have let himself…do what he did?

Sighing, he scratched idly at his chin, feeling the stubble of his beard growing in while he picked at the dried blood that still coated half his face and his neck. Grunting with the effort, he hauled himself up from the bed, absently wondering why he already missed the feeling of her body against him as he snatched his breeches from the floor and pulled them up over his thighs.

He padded silently down the stairs, the dog following happily at his heels. He let the damned beast outside before ransacking her pantry and ice box, drinking half of the pitcher of ice water he found and devouring a bread roll the size of his fist. When a knock sounded on the front door, he had a dagger in his hands before he could catch himself.

Scowling, he moved quietly to the door to peek through a gap in the curtains. With a soft curse, he went and tore the door open, glaring unabashedly at the poor villager on the other side.

The man jumped in surprise, his eyes going wide as he took in the bloodied bastard that stood in Sparrow's doorway, half dressed, with a broken nose and covered in scratches. Grinning wryly, the assassin watched the man's mouth work silently.

"Milk?" he prompted.

The villager stammered an unintelligible response, before offering him the large bottle of milk he carried. "S-s-s-six gold."

"Six? Are you trying to rob me blind?" he growled.

"It's what Sparrow insists on paying," the villager blubbered.

So she was a philanthropist, too, he scoffed as he took the milk and fished six gold pieces from his pocket. He shoved them in the milkman's trembling hand, before slamming the door in his face and prowling back to the kitchen, drinking the milk as quickly as he had drank the water.

Woman had worn him out, he muttered as he set the half empty bottle on the counter before returning to her ice box. His stomach was still growling, and his hands were starting to tremble with the familiar feeling of a body deprived of sustenance.

She came downstairs while he was stuffing jerky in his maw, standing over a pan of sizzling bacon and cooking eggs. She eyed him warily, and he simply watched her expressionlessly.

"I figured you hit the road," she said at last.

"I don't do walks of shame," he rumbled past a full mouth. They both fell silent, and he took the time to run a judging eye over her.

Shit, he really beat the crap out of her last night.

Scowling at himself, he turned and pulled a thick steak out of the ice box, walking around the counter to hold the half-frozen meat to the rising sunset on her face. She still watched him warily, smiling slightly in silent thanks as her hand replaced his.

He cleared his throat uncomfortably. "How's your neck?"

"Sore," she murmured.

He shifted his weight from foot to foot, hoping she didn't notice how nervous he felt as he stared at the hand-shaped bruises on her neck. He had never beaten a woman before. Never choked one with the aim to do anything other than kill. He felt like a down right prick, that's how he felt.

Her hand snaked back behind his head and pulled him down to her, her lips soft and tender as she kissed him. He stared, wide-eyed and dumbfounded as she finally pulled away, lifting her hands to his face and—

He bellowed as she straightened his nose with a twist of her hands and a loud pop from his poor cartilage, and the damn thing started to bleed all over again.

"Sit and I'll get you a rag," she grinned as he staggered away from her, both his hands cupping his poor battered nose as he glared daggers at her. "Big baby," she accused playfully, before leaving him in her kitchen to find the rag she promised.

Cursing her under his breath, he delicately pinched his nose and tried to keep his head tilted backwards while simultaneously tending the pan of cooking food. It was a lot harder than he imagined it could be. She rescued their breakfast before he managed to bleed all over it, gently bumping him out of the way with her hip as she thrust a tattered old rag against his chest.

"So what now?" he blubbered past the blood and held the thing to his nose, shamelessly tucking corners of the cloth up his nostrils to try and stem the flood. He sat with a huge sigh in the nearest chair, head flung back over his shoulders as he stared at the ceiling.

"Well, you obviously don't plan to kill me anymore."

"I hadn't planned to when I tried to leave, and you blackened my eye."

"You deserved it," she laughed, flipping the eggs and bacon with an expert flick of her wrist. "I suppose we can start with your name."

Shit. He glanced at her sidelong, struggling with himself as he watched her silently plate their breakfast. She simply waited, not pushing or probing. After a long moment, he cursed. Quite colorfully.

"I need something to call you," she spoke softly as she set the plate down in front of him. "Something better than Ass the Assassin."

He stared at the plate, then at her. Cursed again. "I was called Brody once."

"Not anymore?"

"What the guild calls me stays with the guild," he muttered.

She grinned suddenly. "Don't trust me to head back to the guild flouncing your name and bragging of your exploits?"

He blushed. For gods' sake, he blushed like a little school boy. "If you do, they'd still be sending assassins after you, as well as me. We're in the same boat now."

She arched a curious eyebrow. "We'll need a bigger boat then, Brody."

He barely fought back the shiver that wracked his spine as she called him by a name he hadn't heard since…well, since before he became an assassin. And that was years ago, before he had his innocence robbed from him as a child.

She grinned and stole a slice of bacon off his plate, before slinking back around the counter towards the door. He laughed softly, watching her as she grabbed her pack from a hook just inside the entrance way before returning to him, one hand buried in the bag. What she drew out had his jaw hanging open in silent surprise.

"I have two pieces," she explained as she set the taped-together pieces of ratty paper on the counter beside his cooling breakfast. It was a map of Albion, with indistinct landmarks and a crudely drawn coastal line, but any fool could see what it was. The entire region around Brightwood was colored in with more prominent features.

"Taken from my brothers, I assume," he murmured as he finally picked his jaw up off the floor.

"I only need one more piece until I know where the society is," she spoke softly, quietly, the threat obvious in her voice. "The gods smiled on them when I didn't find it in your pack."

Finally, it was his turn to give her a sudden grin. "You have a map, yes, but not to the Assassin's Society, and we are not who hold your contract with Lucien. For that, you will have to go to the Highwaymen. And that is where the map will lead you."

She leaned back, watching him carefully as he put his attention on his breakfast. "This is confusing," she finally said.

"Lucien went to the Highwaymen, and gods know they tried to slit your throat for months after you escaped the spire. Lucien got angry, and took a few of their men to the spire as payment for their failure," he explained past shoving forkfuls of scrambled eggs into his mouth.

"So out of desperation they went to you."

He nodded and crunched away contentedly on a piece of bacon. "I must commend you," he chuckled, "very rarely do we have to send more than one assassin after a person. And never before has a contract been handed over to me simply because so many failed."

"Cream of the crop, are we?"

"The very best, dove," he purred at her, sitting up taller in his chair. He winked at her playfully, before stuffing his mouth to the brim.

"Then you're who they call the Fox, right?"

He choked on his eggs.

Laughing, she stole another slice of bacon from his plate before shoving the map back into her pack. "I'll still call you Brody, if you prefer."

"Too smart for your own good," he grumbled and glared at her, once he had choked down his food.

"It's a fitting nickname," she remarked, laughter in her voice as she tended her own breakfast. "You were like a fox raiding the hen house last night. Sneaky bastard. You never answered me last night, by the way."

He wracked his brain, trying to think of what question she had asked. When he remained quiet, she grinned at him.

"Why don't I get a public execution?" she explained.

"Out of respect," he replied simply, falling quiet as he watched her eat. She was taking her time, chewing her food into a pulp before delicately swallowing every bite. He felt an ache in his chest that her throat hurt because of him. "I should go."

"Missing your walk of shame right about now?" she joked, but it stung anyway.

He looked down at his plate, his stomach suddenly hollow and begging him to empty it even if he had to shove a finger down his throat. He cleared his throat and opened his mouth to say something, but the words didn't come.

"So why am I so respected as to earn a private assassination?" she changed the subject back, noting how he shifted his weight in his chair.

"You're the first Hero in a long time that the people loved so much," he murmured, poking at his eggs with his fork. "The guild likes what you have done for Albion. We don't get so many contracts to take out bandits that raped a woman and killed her husband anymore."

She watched him quietly as she chewed. "I didn't know your lot was so honorable."

"We're not highwaymen, killing whoever happens to cross our paths. We do not kill randomly, or indiscriminately. The contracts we take are taken for a reason," he replied heatedly.

"What was the reason for mine?"

He fell silent again, watching her watch him. "I don't know why the master accepted it."

"Why did you?"

He sat back slowly, the chair creaking under his weight. Finally, he shrugged. "Curiosity, I suppose. For the challenge, more likely."

She barked a short laugh. "Did you find it?"

"I failed, didn't I?"

She laughed again, shaking her head before going back to her eggs and bacon. He watched her silently, trying to ignore the bruises he had given her. Under all the blood and black-and-blues, she was a beautiful woman. More so than he had ever anticipated.

"You're staring."

He scratched at his stubble again. "Wondering why you wear that mask like you do."

She gestured to his own, still pulled taught around his head. "Why don't you take yours off?"

"I like the anonymity."

"So you can hide in the crowds again without me noticing?" she quirked an eyebrow at him. He didn't hesitate to nod. "So mistrustful."

"There is a difference from hiding my eyes and you hiding your face," he went on, ignoring her comment.

She shrugged. "The Will Lines scare people, particularly the children. They're strange and weird in a world that hasn't seen a Hero like me in ages, ever since the guild was burned to the ground. It worries the people to see that Heroes may be on the rise again. That we might regain the power we once possessed in Albion. With the mask, they can explain my peculiarities away. They can pass me off as a simple adventurer, if their minds refuse the facts."

"It scares your children, doesn't it?"

She nodded silently, her throat working to swallow despite the lack of food in her mouth. "Jacob was only four before I went to the spire; he does not remember I looked like this before he left. He just remembers me being a radiant angel that chased the monsters from under his bed away. The little ones…"

They fell into a companionable silence.

"Allie was terrified of me," she finally continued. "She had to watch me kill those highwaymen. To her, I was just another thieving murderer. With the Will Lines, I was a demon."

"She seems to love you now."

She laughed, nodding. "It didn't take her long to figure out that I love her, too. The other children helped. She is still so guarded, though."

"And the man? The one you fought with?"

She smiled at him wryly. "Jacob's father—he's the oldest; the one with the black hair and love for all things sharp and pointy?"

He nodded, smiling in amusement.

"My ex," she sighed heavily, leaning back in her chair.

"I gathered so much."

"Divorced me while I was in the spire," she muttered bitterly under her breath, turning her face away to look out the window over the kitchen sink. "Didn't even wait a year, from what I hear. Still hasn't forgiven me for willingly walking into that place. He thinks I wanted to stay there for so long. Hah!"

"He treats the children well?" he had tried to hide his true intentions, but she was just as clever as he was.

"If you even think to kill him I will hang you myself," she grinned at him, and he grinned back. "They love him. Mary treats them all as if they're her own—she's barren, you know. I have never seen a woman happier than when I bring her a new orphan to coddle."

"They just take them all in, no questions asked?"

"Richard does it because he knows what it means to me, and to Mary, and the children. He's a soft bastard despite him always riding my ass for my lifestyle."

She fell into an easy chatter about her children, naming them off one by one and laughing as she explained their little peculiarities to him. Jacob liked swords. Clarissa fancied herself a journeyman bard. Little Jax liked to eat dirt and Sean liked paste.

He lost track of time until a great commotion came from her front yard. He was barely on his feet, daggers in hand, before the door burst in to admit a flurry of activity and loud voices. The children simply poured in, calling out for their mother or screaming and laughing at each other.

And there he was to greet them, a half clothed, bloody mess with daggers ready to spit them. They froze and gawked at him as he stood there, shocked stupid and not even wondering what he should do. Sparrow's light touch on his shoulder had him sliding his daggers home in sheathes sewn into his pant legs, as she walked around him to greet her oldest son.

"I didn't think you would come," she laughed, wrapping her arms around the boy as he struggled to stare at Brody past her shoulder. "Your father was pretty angry."

"He's always angry when you're home," Jacob brushed her off. "Guest?"

"Yes. Be a dear and have your brothers help you haul in water for a bath?" she asked him even as she moved on through the ranks, giving each of her children a bear hug and an affectionate kiss.

"Why are you bloody?" little Jax, the child with dark skin and black hair, tugged innocently at Brody's pant leg.

Brody looked to his mother for help.

"Brody's a hero, just like your mom," Sparrow grinned at him as she picked tiny Allie up, setting her against one hip. "Some bandits broke his nose before he got to Oakfield last night."

Clarissa was grinning wickedly at him, then at his mother. "So where'd the claw marks come from? And why are you in your knickers?"

Sparrow cuffed her ear gently and the girl laughed.

"Why are you bloody, momma?" Jax pressed, ignoring his five other brothers as they took off in a group of whining to go fetch water from the well outside.

"She saved my butt," Brody blurted before Sparrow could open her mouth. "Your mother knew I was late, and went looking to make sure I was okay. And in she swooped like a balverine to rescue me from the evil bandits!" he ended with a flourish, stooping to pick the little boy up in his big hands and swinging him around in the air.

Jax squealed with utter delight, laughing and flapping his arms about as if he were a bird. "Momma saved Brody!" he yelled in his high pitched, little boy's voice.

Two of the little girls that had hidden behind Sparrow's legs rushed forward, tugging at his pants and begging for the story from the beginning. Before he could even reply they were hammering him with more questions, asking if there really had been a balverine that clawed him up so. Why did he wear a highwayman's mask, like momma? How come he didn't have Will marks, like momma, if he was a Hero, too? Question after question after question, and he rushed to answer them one at a time with one lie after the next.

He hadn't noticed Sparrow disappear upstairs with Clarissa and Allie until they were back, Clarissa with a smug, knowing smile on her young face and his shirt draped over an arm. Sparrow was blushing behind her blue Will Lines, a handful of shirt buttons in one hand and a sewing kit in the other. She had taken time to pull on a pair of worn breeches and an airy shirt. The mask she left upstairs.

The children didn't seem to mind.

"You bled all over our sleeping bags," Clarissa grinned brilliantly at him, her smile a mirror image of her mother's. She must have been one of the few Sparrow had birthed herself, before undergoing her mission to stop Lucien. "And momma's bed."

He grinned back at her. "Ran out of bandages."

The girl rolled her eyes, laughing as her mother set her down at the table with a firm hand. Sparrow gave him a chastising look as she set the buttons before her eldest daughter, followed by the sewing kit.

Allie clung to her hip like a monkey, watching Brody with wary eyes. The kid had eyes older than any five year old should, he thought absently.

Sparrow sat at the table beside her daughter, watching him with her glowing blue eyes as he slung Jax over his shoulders. The girls had collapsed to the floor at his feet, toying with little dolls. "I leave for the guild soon," she said at last.

The looks on her children's faces fell, but they didn't complain. Didn't even whine or cry that their mother would be leaving so soon after her return. Brody sat down at the table with her and her daughter, Jax still perched across his neck and giggling. Which guild did she mean? he thought absently.

"Will you take us to the Hero's Guild some time, mom?" Clarissa asked quietly.

"Of course," Sparrow smiled at her, eyes twinkling as Brody looked to his hands in his lap. "Not this time, though. I have some business to take care of in Brightwood before I go."

"Bandit business?"

"Bandit business," Sparrow agreed, but Brody knew better. She was heading for the Highwaymen's Guild to put an end to the price on her head. "And maybe society business, if Brody isn't willing to help."

"You won't help momma?" Jax pouted from his head.

Frowning, Brody plucked the kid from his perch and plopped him down on his lap, tickling him until he was a laughing mass of a six year old. The children hadn't noticed that she used the term 'guild' and 'society' interchangeably; they probably didn't know that there was a difference between the two. "Your mother hasn't told me what she wants help with," he murmured darkly.

Sparrow grinned. Clever woman, using her children to get to him. "That other guild business we were discussing. I can handle the bandits in Brightwood, but I think you may want to handle the society."

Clarissa was feigning disinterest, but he caught her eyes flicker to his mask again.

"I already planned to," he replied quietly.

"Who choked you, mom?" Clarissa finally spoke up, her blue eyes narrowed. Clever, clever little girl knew there was something more going on than the two Heroes would admit.

"A bandit, honey," Sparrow lied without hesitating. But Brody was on his feet, the chair scraping against the floor as he set Jax down among his sisters.

"I'll see how the boys are doing," he muttered angrily, stalking out of the room and away from the clever Hero and her even cleverer daughter.

The boys, it proved, had gotten into a water fight somewhere between the well and the large iron bath tub Sparrow had squirreled away in her backyard. The thing was glaringly open to any curious eyes that might come calling, but Sparrow didn't seem to mind. He hadn't seen her use it once while he was stalking her. She probably washed out of a bowl in her bedroom, away from his observation.

Soaking wet, the boys looked at Brody with shy, abashed grins as they went back to filling the tub, hauling the water from the well bucket by bucket. "Can you light the fire?" Jacob asked hopefully.

"Where does your mother keep the matches?" he replied simply enough, hands on his hips as he kept watchful vigil over the boys, lest the water war break out again.

"She doesn't have any," a boy around ten spoke up. The paste eater, he assumed, going by his blonde hair and buck teeth. Sean, if he remembered right.

"Doesn't have any?" Brody laughed. "Then how do you expect me to light the fire?"

"You can use Will, can't you?" Jacob pressed. "Mom does it all the time. Not around dad, or in the village. It scares people. But she'll do it for us when we ask."

Brody sighed and looked up at the sky, praying for the gods to save him from Sparrow's family. They were nothing but clever, conniving little children. "I'm not very good at it," he grimaced. Not a lie, considering how little he knew of his powers, and how even littler he used them. "I suppose I could manage a fire, though."

The kids cheered and hauled buckets faster, stopping only in awe to watch Brody as he glared at the pile of kindling gathered under the tub. With another huge sigh he glared at the unoffending sticks and firewood, before calling to the roiling power he felt deep in his veins. It boiled up quickly—quicker than he had anticipated—and leapt to do his bidding as it gathered in his hands. With a snarl he flung the power, Will, whatever the people called it these days, at the kindling.

It erupted into flames that licked at the sky, startling the boys into a chorus of raucous cheers.

Brody rolled his eyes but laughed anyway. No doubt their mother possessed more control of her powers than he did, and never blew up piles of sticks.

"It's already starting to steam!" Jacob crowed happily. "Mom's baths never heat up so fast!"

Laughing, Brody stripped out of his breeches and climbed in the tub, careful to avoid touching the metal sides as he sat on the little wooden bench inside. "Put it out for me, then? I'm afraid I can call fire, but I can't kill it."

The boys hurried to obey, dumping their buckets over the fire and turning Sparrow's backyard into a pretty darn good sauna. Brody laughed, sinking up to his chest in the warm water as steam dampened his mask and drew sweat on his exposed skin.

"My daughter caught a peak of your naked back side!" Sparrow yelled at him from the kitchen window.

"That's what happens when you have your bath tub in your bloody yard!" he yelled back and tried to ignore the boys' sniggers. As soon as he had managed to block out the world, focusing on the feel of hot water working out the tension in his muscles, though, the boys went right back to their water fight.

Bunch of little spit fires, he cursed to himself and grinned wryly, watching them race about the yard flinging buckets of water as he idly scrubbed at the blood on his chest. The water burned in the scrapes from Sparrow's nail marks—a mild irritation compared to the throbbing in his nose. He had to be particularly delicate with that area, as he splashed at his face and tried in vain to clean the blood from around his tender nose without knocking it.

"Let me see," Sparrow spoke gently as she kneeled in the charred dirt beside the tub. He jumped in surprise, hands darting to cover himself modestly. They had shared a night of half-assed passion, sure. Didn't mean he was ready to romp about naked when her kids were hanging around.

She laughed at the blush coloring his cheeks and his wide eyes. With a knowing smile, she gently took his square jaw between her hands and pulled his face towards her. Thought of his modesty flew out the window as she delicately placed her thumbs to either side of his swollen nose, pressing ever so lightly to feel the structure under his skin.

He cursed up a storm that had the boys laughing from where they watched over their mother's shoulder.

"Language," she chided him absently. "It's still set properly. If you're careful, it should heal as if you'd never broken it."

He had been about to correct her that _she_ had broken it before he remembered the kids. He settled for glaring daggers at her instead.

Sparrow had a private little smile on her lips as she dipped a wash cloth in the water, before delicately dabbing at his nose and wiping away the blood. "Make sure you clean under that mask of yours," she laughed under her breath.

He splashed her, much to her boys' delight. She merely laughed, shirt sopping wet as she kept administering to his bloodied face. They both waited in awkward silence—him obsessively aware of his nakedness and her obviously wanting to say something—until her brood's fight migrated towards the front of the house.

Finally, she spoke. "Will you stay tonight?"

Well, he sure wasn't expecting that. "Why?" his voice cracked in alarm. Irritated, he cleared his throat and gently pulled his face from her hands. "Sparrow, I'm an assassin. An assassin sent after you. I don't know what the bloody hell last night was, but are you in your right damn mind?"

"Yes, it was a pretty splendid fuck up, wasn't it?" she huffed, sitting on her heels and looking completely innocent as he glared at her. "Brody, I—"

He swore again.

"What?" this time her voice was the irritated one.

"I'm just not used to hearing people say that name," he sighed in frustration, slamming his head back against the rim of the tub. "I shouldn't have stayed last night. This is a right proper old mess, you know that, right?"

"After I get that hit called off of me, I leave for Bloodstone, Brody," she started to explain, her voice calm and patient and desperately pleading for him to understand.

He stared at her blankly at the mention of Bloodstone. Had she figured out that was where the Assassination Society was headquartered? It was the only place in all of Albion that a group of lawless murderers could find safe harbor, what with that pirate Reaver owning the whole town. No guards to interfere with them, and plenty of able minded recruits growing up in Bloodstone's harsh streets. That, and the only way to and from it was via boat.

It was a perfect haven for him and his brothers.

"Why would you go to Bloodstone?" his voice was kept perfectly under control, void of emotion. Don't let on to her, Brody, he told himself. Not until she got to the Highwaymen first, and you get a chance to plead her case to the master.

"Guild business," she replied instantly, her voice just as neutral.

"What guild business," he bit out between clenched teeth.

"Why do you care so much?"

His hand darted out from the water in a blur, long, strong fingers grabbing a fistful of her hair and holding her head in place. Slowly, he leaned in to her, watching as her blue eyes flashed angrily. "Because you plot to head into a cesspit of immorality."

"Worried about my well being?" she purred dangerously, her eyes half lidded.

His loins stirred and he let go of her abruptly. Disturbed, he looked away from her and tried to preoccupy himself with washing. But then she had him by his mask, and yanked his head back around to look at her.

"I will simply say that my next step to stopping Lucien lies there," she whispered quietly, heatedly.

"What does it have to do with me staying the night?" he growled back, voice pitched low.

She surprised him by resting her forehead against his as she let out a huge sigh. He watched as her eyes closed and she struggled to find her words, her fingers toying with the knot to his mask all the while. "Because above all else, I am a human, and a woman," she spoke softly. "Because whatever did happen last night, I enjoyed it."

"I choked you, for fuck's sake!"

She quieted him with a tender kiss. "Brody," she whispered against his lips after she sapped the fight from him, "I'm not so arrogant as to think that I may not be heading to my death when I leave tomorrow. But I am a divorced mother of ten. I am a lone Hero in a world where few understand what it means to be one. And last night was the first night I had shared my bed with a man in over a _decade_."

The thought wandered through his head that ten years was a hell of a long time to be celibate. It kept on wandering as he kissed her, split lip and broken nose protesting the whole time. Common sense told him he was an idiot. The male parts of him told him he was a champion of men everywhere, for not denying her request.

* * *

And finally we know our masked assassin's name!


	4. Chapter 4

Title: To Kill a Sparrow  
Chapter: 4  
Rating: M  
Chapter Warning: Cursing. And it will be in every chapter through out this whole thing.  
Pairings: FemSparrow x OC  
Disclaimer: Fable, Fable II, etc, belongs to LionHead Studios. I make no profit from this work of tribute to my favorite NPCs in the series. Please don't sue me, grumpy British game developers. :(

* * *

Brody grumbled to himself as he picked his way along a seldom used trail on the fringes of Oakfield. If he kept to it long enough, it would merge with a game trail that ran nearly parallel with the road to Westcliffe. From there, it was only a matter of finding the first pirate-turned-trader ship to Bloodstone before he could let down his guard and relax.

And it was proving continually difficult to keep so much as a third of his brain on staying hidden in the forest while keeping a watchful eye out for hobbes, bandits, and balverines. He was looking forward to the moment he would be sprawled out in a hammock, swaying to and fro with the movement of a ship on open sea, without a bloody thing to watch out for. Then, he could let his mind mull over that crazy woman that distracted him so, despite her being a good three hours back up the trail in Oakfield.

That way, he could figure out why the hell on the second morning waking up next to her he decided to take that walk of shame he should've taken yesterday. It was mildly surprising that he had even managed to sneak out of her house without waking her, when she had woken so easily to the sound of his creaking gloves less than forty-eight hours before. But out he made it, tiptoeing like the stealthy bastard he was while she was left snuggling a pillow in his stead.

It bothered him that his backbone decided to take a vacation. Bothered him even more that he had to put his hands on her throat again to get off. Gods, he had tried so hard to do the deed without that sick twist of bed room magic. She did her best, too, and had nearly managed to pull it off until she had tried to take his mask off—

Shit. Was the mask some kind of stupid fetish, too? What, was he a hardcore sadist now, needing masks and ball gags to get his satisfaction? Next thing he'd know, he'd be tying her up and taking a whip to her back—

Fuck no. No, no, no. And _no_. He was not that kind of man. He was not that kind of man. _He was not that kind of man_.

Murderer? Yes. Assassin? Yes. Occasional petty thief? Well, yes. Woman beater? _Gods, no_.

He killed women, sure. But those were clean, fast deaths. Contracted deaths. Deaths someone felt they deserved for whatever atrocities they committed. But he didn't just go around beating the crap out of women, especially ones he shared his bed with. He didn't go around _choking_ them to get his rocks off.

Brody found a nice boulder to sit down on so he could tear his mask off and run his hands through his hair. It didn't help clear his head. His thoughts were just as jumbled up and frustrated as they were before when he finally settled for pressing his palms into his eye sockets.

The pain from the pressure on his swollen nose helped get his thoughts a little organized.

Alright, he told himself, first off: everything was consensual. Sort of. He didn't do anything to her that she hadn't asked him to do or she didn't protest. She liked it rough just as much as she liked it tender—her being the one last night that left a nice sized bruise on his neck from a rather hard love bite, before peppering his sore nose with soft kisses that oddly made his whole body feel good.

And second: plenty of people have odd fetishes. There was Tom Cat, one of his brothers in the Society with a thing for feet. Nighthawk only banged prostitutes. Shadow liked role playing, and Steve liked dressing up as a woman. Sanguine had a thing for fingering his—well, that was according to his ex.

Certainly he wasn't the only guy out there who finished with his paws wrapped around his lover's throat?

Of course he wasn't. Rapists do that too, you sick fuck, right before they murder their victims.

"What kind of name is Steve for a bloody assassin?" he snarled under his breath.

"Well, not all of us can instill the fear of the gods in the hearts of mortal men," a cool voice drawled at Brody's back, causing him to think up a whole new slew of curses and oaths. "Did you really hear me coming, or are you just cursing my name and falling out of practice, Fox?"

Brody glanced over his shoulder at his brother, scowling, before he climbed to his feet. "No, you've just gotten sneakier."

"I'm as sneaky as a fat woman walking on brittle sticks," Steve snorted dismissively. "Nice shiner you've got there. Get it from our lady Hero?"

"And a whole lot of other ouchies for you to poke fun over," he grumbled, tugging his mask back on as a slew of highwaymen poured out of the trees. He looked at them one by one, taking note of their numbers and the weapons still sheathed on their backs. Five highwaymen, one assassin. He hoped he wouldn't have to kill any of them, especially Steve. He liked Steve.

"Poke fun?" Steve snorted again. "Not when you're the only one of us poor bastards to survive her. I've been praying like mad that she wouldn't pick our path to tread ever since she offed Shadow last week. So, the job's done then, is it?"

Brody cast another look over the highwaymen. They were still watching the trees around them, eyes raptly looking both ways on the trail for a target that wouldn't come. Steve knew better. He knew Brody wouldn't have sat in plain view on a trail if their mark was around somewhere. "We're heading back to the S

ociety, Steve."

Steve cawed happily. "By gods, it's really done, then! You hear that, you thieving bastards? We can get off this forsaken road and find real work, closer to taverns and ale and pretty women."

"Lord Darius said we ain't t' leave 'till he sends fo' us," one of the highwaymen snapped irritably. "Or dinnit ye ferget?"

"And you seem to have forgotten that we aren't under 'Lord' Darius' command," Brody snapped back just as irritated.

"You got her 'ead then, ye ass?" the man chortled, fancying himself clever. "Lucien's contract is fer her 'ead, and we ain't leavin' 'tills we sees it."

Rolling his eyes, Brody shoved a hand in his pack and yanked out a great bloody mess wrapped up in Sparrow's mask. It was the product of twenty minutes of mashing a melon into a vaguely head-shaped object, and anointing it with chicken blood from the village butcher.

The highwaymen let out a low, appreciative whistle as Steve clapped Brody on the shoulder. "Society should have sent you the moment we got the contract," the assassin chuckled.

Feeling all kinds of shitty for lying to one of his brothers, Brody shoved the 'head' back in his bag before stalking off down the trail the way he had been heading. Steve followed obediently, whistling a cheery little tune as the highwaymen headed the opposite way towards Oakfield.

An hour or so passed before either of the assassins said a word to each other.

"You do realize that you're going down in the history books for this, right, Fox?" Steve said lightly. "Tricking a lot of morons into thinking a melon is a Hero's head, I mean. That tale is worthy of a bard's song, in my opinion."

Brody shrugged.

"What happened?"

"She beat the snot out of me, that's what happened," he grumbled. "I'm not dying to advance a cause none of us believe in, Steve. There is only so much I am willing to do for money."

"Lucien will kill you for walking away from her," his brother went on, tone light and nonchalant. "Hell, he might have me do it for him."

"And are you Lucien's pawn, Steve?"

"I'd rather Lucien snapped my neck himself, rather than forcing you to do it," Steve laughed.

"Well, he's turning the whole society into his lackeys trying to keep that woman from getting at him," Brody snarled angrily. "How many have we lost to this one contract? More than we've lost in entire years!"

"It's not that I don't agree with you, Fox," Steve interrupted politely. "It's that I'm wondering if you know what it is you're doing, calling off the entire hunt. You're the best of the best, but do you really have the authority? The master…"

"She gave me a message for the master," Brody lied again, and Steve took it. "How else do you think I escaped with my life?"

"I will admit, I hoped that maybe you maimed her enough to limp your way to safety. Is your nose broken? Your voice sounds nasally."

"In two places. She head butted it not long after she broke it." Truth, finally. He had to stick to as much of the truth as he could. The more he fabricated, the more he ran the risk of sounding like it was all a load of rubbish. The more likely he'd be to trip over his own lies.

"And what is this message you deem worthy enough to call me out of the field?"

"It's for the master's ears, Steve."

"Just curious, my dear boy."

"Something that will get us out from under Lucien's thumbs and get her contract annulled."

They both fell silent as Steve mulled that over. A few minutes later, though, and his mouth was moving a mile a minute as he hammered Brody with questions about his fight with the Hero. Brody grinned and bared it, telling as much of the truth as he could without spilling the beans every assassin in their right mind would want to hear. No, his screw up with Sparrow would stay between him and her, and as far as he was concerned his brothers didn't have a right to know about it.

Not that he would be the first to sleep with a mark. Things happened in his line of business. Sometimes a woman—or man, you never knew what people were in to these days—would make a proposition to try and buy their lives long enough to sort matters out. And while the Assassin Society was no ramshackle group of murderers, it wasn't unusual for one of his brothers to lack the moral upstanding and self control to deny sex bribes. The only difference with Brody is that he was the only one to walk away tightening his belt without leaving his mark dead behind him.

And he wasn't bribed.

And Sparrow wasn't just some random milkmaid who stuck a pitch fork in a farmer's son.

Steve let out a long, low whistle as Brody wrapped up his story, complete with embellishments and exaggerations about how he had narrowly escaped with his life and Sparrow's message. "That is some kind of woman, if you ask me," he chortled, shaking his head with disbelief. "A woman you can fall in love with, know what I mean?"

Brody's back went stiff. "Afraid not." Did he suspect? Did he smell Sparrow on him or something? And he wasn't in _love_ with her, gods no. She just happened to be a rather amazing bed partner—

"Yeah, you know, a big, strong woman like that. A man's got to respect a woman that can throw a punch."

"Respect, yes. But love?"

"What, you like those fragile little noble's daughters in Bowerstone?" Steve grinned, elbowing Brody in the side.

He winced, swinging his ribs away.

Steve laughed again. "She bruised your ribs? Maybe she broke a few."

"It's just I always figured if a woman were to win me away from the Society, it'd be some gentle girl without a callous on her hands or an aggressive bone in her body," frowning, Brody put a hand to his side where he did indeed have a bruise coloring his hide all shades of black and blue. "You don't think that when you retire you want a little wife to show you how gentle the world really can be?"

Steve snorted inelegantly. "I spent my whole life learning how gentle the world isn't. I'm not disillusioned, Fox."

"But you don't want a woman that doesn't share the scars you have?" frowning, Brody paused in the middle of the path to turn to face his friend. "You don't want to come home to an escape where your wife doesn't understand how men could rape a girl and kill her mother? Where the worst that life has to hold for you and her is the tax collector and a mortgage? Or whether or not your daughter is doing well in school?"

Steve gave him a rather serious look. "Men like us, Fox, we're not exactly sane despite all appearances. We're scarred, like you said. We've seen things, done things that no normal citizen of Albion can rightly comprehend. The only way men like you and I will get a girl like that is by giving her a lie to believe. And I like to think that my morality isn't so corrupt yet that I'd be willing to have a marriage of lies."

"I would think of it as protecting her, wouldn't you?"

"From who? You?" Steve poked him in the ribs again. "Don't get me wrong. Any real man wants a woman that makes him feel like a guardian, a real man of worth. But I want my wife to know that I'd gladly kill for her, and not bat an eyelash when I do it. I want her to know what I've done, what I'm capable of. My scars? I want her to know what they are and love me all the more for it."

Brody frowned.

"Every one of them," Steve pressed, before letting out a stressed laugh. "I want a woman that knows why I still wake up in a cold sweat, screaming my little heart out from nightmares. And then I want her to hold me like the big baby I am while I cry my eyes out and know that come sun rise she'll still be there, ready and willing to help me fight my demons."

They stood in silence for a moment, Steve's jaw working as he clenched his teeth and tried not to grind them while Brody's mind worked like a duck in water to process his rather emotional speech. In all honesty, Brody hadn't given much thought to retirement, let alone marriage. Maybe because he was young in comparison to Steve, but he just figured he'd live a content life murdering people for a living. And truth be told, he had always thought one day he'd leave Bloodstone to carry out a mark and never return.

A woman like Sparrow, though… Yes, he could see what Steve meant. She had seen things just as harsh and cruel as Brody had. She could kill a man just as easily as he could, and the only question in her mind before doing it would be the best course of action to achieve the desired result. She didn't gossip of the terrors of balverines and hobbes lying in wait outside the village walls with the other farmers' wives. She took up a sword and did something about it. She confronted it. She didn't hide and cower from the realities of life.

No, she was a clever, stubborn, aggressive woman that dared the world to do its worst and fought everything it threw at her head on.

But then, she had a soft side. The things that Brody first thought he'd want in a woman, she had too. Sparrow knew how to laugh, how to enjoy a peaceful evening cooking a simple meal for her children. She took advantage of her rare moments of happiness. Hell, she took damaged children from torn environments and taught them how to laugh and love again. Showed them that while the world was a harsh and cruel place to grow up in, there were things in it that made the pains and heartache worth living through.

Brody rubbed at his chest and cleared his throat. "I suppose you're right, Steve. If she hadn't broken my nose, I'm sure I'd think of Sparrow the same way."

The assassin clapped him on the shoulder. "Yes, I suppose I am," he grinned, before they both resumed their journey to Westcliffe. "And since you're so disenchanted with the lady, perhaps you wouldn't care to introduce me some time?"

"She'll be in Bloodstone in a few weeks. I'm sure I can manage something then," Brody replied absently.

"Say _what_? How the bloody hell does she plan to do that while Lucien's got a bloody blockade around the whole damn peninsula?"

Brody froze in his tracks again. "What?"

"The ships showed up not long after you left for her contract," Steve frowned. "It's got Reaver in a right old fuss. He's taken out a couple naval ships to convince Lucien to at least allow his pirates and some traders through, but even then there are spire guards searching every vessel that wants to dock in Bloodstone."

"He knows she's going there? How?"

"How the bloody hell would I know. I thought the prick was just looking for some lost artifact or some such. I never really did understand nobility."

Cursing, Brody looked back down the path towards Westcliffe. He couldn't turn back, not with Steve tagging along like he was. He'd have to come up with some half cocked story why Brody felt he had to warn her, and then Steve might see something between him and Sparrow that Brody didn't want to be seen.

And then he felt like an idiot for even thinking of it. She was Sparrow. Somehow, she had managed to come this far and avoid any traps Lucien set for her. So what if there was a blockade? She'd get there. He didn't know how, but she would. One way or another.

* * *

I had a reader once tell me that I was a potty mouth in my fics. She's right, but I like to think that I use my curse words rather tastefully-and always correctly. D: Plus, it fits the characters, in my humble opinion!

As always, please review! Thanks for sticking with the fic. =)


	5. Chapter 5

Title: To Kill a Sparrow  
Chapter: 5  
Rating: M  
Chapter Warning: Cursing, violence, questioning of one's sanity.  
Pairings: FemSparrow x OC  
Disclaimer: Fable, Fable II, etc, belongs to LionHead Studios. I make no profit from this work of tribute to my favorite NPCs in the series. Please don't sue me, grumpy British game developers. :(

* * *

By the time the ship docked at Bloodstone, Brody was going crazy. His whole body was tense and uptight, and every time he sat still for so much as a minute he'd find himself fidgeting and jittery like some addict on the rebound. No doubt Steve and the three other assassins he had pulled off of Sparrow's contract between Oakfield and Westcliffe were glad to be off the ship with him. He hadn't been the best company to keep.

No, not while he was eager to kill someone. It had been a while, longer than usual since he carried out his last contract. Sparrow's was the one meant to give him his high that would last him a few months until the next. It was her life that had been meant to satiate his dark needs. And while the hunt had done the job, the surprise ending hadn't done the trick, like he thought it had.

He needed to get a contract, fast. He yearned to stalk a target, to feel the anticipation mounting through weeks of waiting and watching, ever vigilant, ever patient. It was the challenge he craved. The puzzle his mind needed to chew on to be content. All the work, all the hard effort, culminating to a grand final moment where he held some bastard's life in his hands and felt it draining away. Slowly…surely…heading towards an inevitable death for the atrocities they had committed…

And the rush he'd feel the whole time! The nervous butterflies, the light headedness, the huge surge of relief and loss of tension once the deed was done. He needed it. Gods, he needed it.

It had him blazing a path straight for the run down, shitty little hovel tucked among more of its kind near the docks. The thing had been condemned for a long time, seeing as how a corner of the ceiling was sagging and threatening to cave in, and the basement had a rather ferocious rat infestation. But no one went near it, so it was the perfect place for men like Brody to go to fetch contracts.

"Back so soon?" the assassin that kept hours at the dilapidated house greeted him with a bored drawl. "And here I thought we'd be searching for your grave for the next year or so. Good kill, I hope?"

"I need another contract. Local, if you have it," Brody ignored him, settling instead to pace just inside the doorway while he scrubbed a hand over his mouth. He was trying not to get too excited. One never knew what contracts Mr. Blank had at any given point in time, and usually they carried one a lot further than Bloodstone.

Mr. Blank let out a huge, exaggerated sigh. "Local? Do you know how bloody rare that is? We're in Bloodstone, Mr. Fox. People here have a tendency to take care of their own dirty work."

"Do you have one or not?" he snapped irritably.

The assassin cocked his head to the side and gave him a once over. No doubt he noted Brody's restless hands, and how he wrung at his coat when he wasn't drumming out a beat on his legs. "Am I mistaken to assume that you returned without fulfilling your last one?"

"You would be correct. Now do you have one or not?"

Mr. Blank frowned, but drew a wad of folded up papers out of his coat pocket. He started to shuffle through them absently, not really looking at anything they said. "Normally I wouldn't think twice about giving you a different one, Mr. Fox. But the master would wish to see you before I put you back out into the field."

"Just give me a damn mark, you twit," he growled.

The assassin ignored the threat. "You won't last much longer in the Society if you don't find another way to get your high, Mr. Fox."

"Shut it, would you?"

Sighing, Mr. Blank plucked a contract out of the pile, seemingly at random. "You lot always want the local contracts, these days. Bunch of lazy bastards if I ever saw one myself. It doesn't pay well, not like the one on Sparrow's head."

Brody snatched the paper from his hands, reading it voraciously as he resumed pacing.

"Mr. Fox," Mr. Blank's hand grabbed his arm, stilling him and grabbing every ounce of his attention. The assassin's tone had dropped low and held a quiet threat to it that was unusual for the man. Mr. Blank was a dangerous man, assassin or no. And as far as the Society went, he was directly under the master. You didn't ignore him when he had something to say. "You _will_ see the master as soon as you finish, won't you?"

The two men stared at each other, calculating and dangerous. "Of course," Brody said at last. "You know I wouldn't return without fulfilling my contract unless I had good reason."

Mr. Blank sat back in his chair slowly, still watching Brody with those eerily intelligent eyes of his. The man made him feel like he could stare into his soul and know all his dirty secrets, sometimes. "I would hope so."

Frowning, Brody backed out of the building and tucked his new contract into his coat. He waited until he could no longer see hide or hair of Mr. Blank before turning his back, and making swift tracks towards the heart of town.

Mr. Blank hadn't been lying. The contract paid shitty, and it definitely wouldn't be a career maker, but that wasn't what Brody wanted it for. He just wanted the kill.

Desperately.

Finding the poor sot wasn't even a challenge. Most of what he needed was on the contract: the man's schedule, his home address, his work address and hours, his addictions and vices. There would be no weeks of gathering anticipation as Brody stalked his mark. Just a quick death and an even quicker fix.

He pulled out a chair at the inn, sitting his bulk down elegantly as he stared openly at his mark. The man was pouring beer from the kegs behind the counter, warily watching Brody out of the corner of his eye. This was Bloodstone, and it wasn't uncommon to see an assassin openly walking the streets wearing his killing clothes and mask. But that didn't mean the townsfolk were completely comfortable with their presence.

With no guards and no local law enforcement, a man could do anything in Bloodstone and think to get away with it.

The man served the customers he had been waiting on, before wiping his hands dry on a towel draped over his shoulder and walking around the counter. He headed straight for Brody's table, wisely ignoring other customers that had been waiting long before him. In Bloodstone, you served the most dangerous customers before all the rest. The faster you got it done, the faster the guy that could put a dagger in your chest left.

"What'll ye have?" he asked in a deep, surly brogue no doubt meant to intimidate. And by the way the bastard's biceps strained at his shirt, Brody had a pretty good idea that the guy was trying to look as big and intimidating as possible.

"Have any wine?" Brody drawled nonchalantly.

The innkeeper snorted. "Ale and rum's alls we got. Ye know that."

He let out a dramatic sigh before sinking deeper into his chair. Pretending to think about it for a moment, Brody took a dagger from a sheathe in his breeches and toyed with it absently. The man's eyes watched the blade the whole time. "Bowerstone ale?" he inquired after a moment.

The innkeeper nodded silently.

"I'll have a pint of that, then."

Wisely, the fat pig beat a quick retreat to fetch his ale. When he came back and plunked the splintering wooden stein down on the table in front of him, Brody kept him from turning to another customer by placing a stilling hand on his sleeve. "What?" the innkeeper snapped.

"I've been out of town for a while," Brody smiled. It was a smile that oft got him a good toss in the sack with a barmaid or two in the past. One that said he was harmless and just looking for a bit of conversation or fun. It was one that he had practiced in the mirror for hours and hours until it was believable. "I heard a strange rumor on the docks. Something about Madame Eve's bordello having a bit of trouble with a fire?"

"Oi, ye heard of that, have ye?" the innkeeper's eyes were hard in his face, but Brody noted how the man squared his shoulders and puffed himself up a bit more. As if he were proud of what he did. "Aye, that it did. Ye be wanting the details then, I gather?"

"Oh, no, nothing like that. I was just wondering if it was true what they are saying. That you raped one of her girls without paying, and then tried to burn the house down around the whole lot?"

At that, the innkeeper finally grinned. His teeth were black and rotting in places. "Feh, something like that. Stupid git tried to charge me up front, and when I wouldn't she tried to kick me out. I already had me pants around me ankles and everything!"

"No, I don't suppose you would have been happy with that."

"Aye, so's I just took what I wanted, to teach her a lesson, ye see? And then the bitch started screaming and hollering and carrying on, and the bouncer came a runnin' and tried to beat me head in. So's I took a dagger to him, ye see?"

"I thought weapons were forbidden in the bordello?" Brody arched an eyebrow behind the cover of his mask. He toyed with his beer stein absently, something to give his hands to concentrate on.

"Yeah but I always got one in me boots, you know. Never can be too careful these days. So anyways, I stuck the poor sot and she starts screaming _louder_. Now I'm right old pissed, 'cause she just wouldn't shut up. And then she tries to attack me with a candlestick!" he huffed incredulously. "Can ye imagine it? So's I told her, if she be wanting to play with fire, she was doin' it all wrong. And then I lit her bed on fire and locked the twit inside her room with it."

"Died, did she?"

The man didn't notice that Brody's voice had gone hard, cold. He nodded eagerly, hands on his hips as he posed, as if he were a hero for what he did. "Whole damn place burnt to ashes. And as it should've, if ye ask me. Madame Eve had been chargin' double lately, you know. As if any women she had was worth it!"

Brody sighed and slid his beer to the far edge of his table, where it would be safely out of the way. Slowly, he put his dagger back in its hiding place, so as to put the man more at ease. "That prostitute had a family, you know."

The bastard snorted disdainfully. "As we all do. She tried to take monies away from me that was to put dinner on the table for me wife and kids!"

"And so you took a mother from her children instead?" Brody drawled, watching as a vein started to stand out on the man's forehead from his anger. The inn was growing silent around them, all eyes slowly turning towards them as conversations halted.

The innkeeper didn't notice. "And who cares about a whore's bastard children? Probably diseased ridden and what not. I bet I saved them from a life of prostitution and drugs, you know. A mother like that couldn't've been no good for her children!"

"I beg to differ. Turns out she had been using her wages to pay for her oldest son to go to the academy in Bowerstone," Brody was starting to feel the adrenaline in his veins. His body knew what was coming and was ready for it.

"Even worse, if ye ask me," the innkeeper cursed an oath and spat on the dirt floor under their feet. "That academy is a lot of rubbish."

"Well, her son seems to think it was the best thing she had ever done for him. He's a scholar now, you know. Loves every minute of his life, just as he loved his mother."

Oh gods, it felt good. There was a stillness to his body he hadn't felt in ages as he sat there, feigning disinterest while his nerves lit up with energy. The anticipation was mounting, making his stomach go hollow and his heart beat go erratic.

The innkeeper spat again, this time aiming a lot closer to Brody's feet. "So's what?"

"So he took out a contract for you."

No sooner had the words left his mouth than the man turned to run for the counter, no doubt where he kept some rifle or other taped beneath it. But Brody was faster, shooting up out of his chair in the blink of an eye and wrapping his hand around the pig's throat as he did. Growling, he shoved the sick fuck down onto the table he had been sitting at mere moments ago.

The world blackened on the fringes of his vision as Brody's hands squeezed the man's fat neck. He breathed hard as his whole body focused on the kill. He could feel the man's heart beating frantically beneath his hands. He could smell his fear as the sot made an effort at escape, legs flailing to gain purchase on the floor while his hands groped at Brody's.

But Brody was strong, inhumanly strong. His hands weren't going anywhere.

He weathered out the man's dying protests, not even feeling the pain as the pig started to beat at his arms and his sides. Had he been smart, he would have gone for Brody's glaringly obvious broken nose. As it was, though, he didn't and he was growing weaker by the minute.

Spittle flew from his mouth as he tried to breathe. But every time the man let out so much as a tiny gasp of air, Brody's hands tightened. His mark's eyes bulged, veins bursting from the strain and turning the whites into a jungle of red lines. Slowly, his face turned red as the blood from his brain pooled in his face, unable to escape to his heart through the veins pinched off under Brody's hands.

He turned purple as his hands fell limp at his sides. Still Brody squeezed, feeling the frantic pulse under his hands. And slowly the man lost consciousness. The life drained from him. His entire body went still. Motionless. Any semblance of life sapped from him.

Brody scowled at the corpse he clung to between his hands. Something was wrong. Where was his fix? Where was the rush of relief, the surge of satisfaction that one more sick fuck was off the streets?

So he snapped the corpse's neck for good measure. Sometimes that did it, when he was unable to take his time to choke a mark.

But still he felt the tension in his body. Still he yearned from the rush, the release, the thrill of it all. What the hell was wrong with him? Had it not been enough to take this man's life? Did he need to take another? Or was Mr. Blank right? Was killing not providing him the fix he needed anymore?

"Shit," Brody swore under his breath before sitting back down in his chair. He ignored the stares of the inn's patrons as he grabbed his stein—untouched by the innkeeper's dying flails—and took a long pull of the still cold draft. The drink soothed his nerves somewhat as he leaned back, propping his boots on the table as he glowered in frustration at the corpse still laid upon it.

Slowly, the inn went back to normal. Patrons resumed their games of cards or dice as if nothing had happened. Serving girls went on despite their boss being dead on a table. One even stopped by Brody's table to give him another mug of ale, giving him an appreciative smile and a generous brush of her bosom on his shoulder as she did. Brody ignored the invitation.

He was in a whole lot of trouble. What with the mess with Sparrow, and now his failure at achieving the high he sought… "Shit. Just plain old shit."


	6. Chapter 6

Title: To Kill a Sparrow  
Chapter: 6  
Rating: M  
Chapter Warning: Cursing, questioning of one's sanity and sexuality. Doggy pr0n (notrly).  
Pairings: FemSparrow x OC  
Disclaimer: Fable, Fable II, etc, belongs to LionHead Studios. I make no profit from this work of tribute to my favorite NPCs in the series. Please don't sue me, grumpy British game developers. :(

* * *

And so Brody was a nervous wreck by the time he dragged himself to the abandoned monastery that the Society had inhabited hundreds of years ago, when Avo had fallen out of favor by Albion's populace. He couldn't stop thinking of the innkeeper, of the kill, and how it failed to give him what he wanted. What the hell was wrong with the world lately? Did the gods or spirits or whoever the fuck was in charge of things just decide that it was time to shit all over his life again?

Hadn't he been dealt enough in his youth?

But no. The world had to take away the comfortable life he had found for himself. Again. First Sparrow, and then his job. What would be next? His bloody manhood?

"Mr. Blank informs me that you left your mark alive," the master drawled from where he sat, sprawled out in his little throne where the alter to Avo used to reside.

"The pig's dead," Brody responded without thinking as he stood before the man. The master's usual court was in attendance: a mix of prostitutes, orphans, and the occasional assassin. Brody ignored them all.

"I meant Sparrow, smartass. How is it that after I explicitly told you not to come back unless you or her were dead, that you stand before me now?" The master was old as far as assassins went. Older than Brody and Steve combined, if the rumor mill was right. As it was, he was simply a little old wrinkled up man with hair as white as snow that peeked out around the crimson of his mask.

"I failed—"

"Obviously," the master snapped. "But why do you still breathe?"

Brody scowled at the old man. The master was the deadliest man in Albion, once upon a time. Now, though, age had softened him. Brody feared him no more than he feared the innkeeper he had just killed. It was respect the man had from him, though. The old ass had salvaged Brody's life, after all. "Sparrow has a proposition for the Society, master."

At that the old man was silent with thinly veiled surprise. And maybe a little flicker of hope, if Brody hadn't misinterpreted the light in the man's eyes? "Is that so?"

"Master, we have lost dozens of competent assassins in a matter of weeks because of that contract with Lucien. We have sent our best and brightest. And even I, master, have failed to take her life. How many more dare we send before our Society is rendered to dust?" Brody started passionately, slowly approaching the master's throne as he spoke. "The highwaymen have thrown their numbers at her, hoping to drown her and they failed. Lucien's spire could not break her, and even his guards and commodores proved inept at keeping her under their control. We are not so many any more, master, that we can afford to maintain this fruitless effort!"

"Enough of your speech, Fox. Tell me what the Hero said," the master huffed, gesturing for a hand servant to bring him a bowl of bright green grapes.

Brody watched him pick at the fruit as he kneeled at the master's feet. "Sir, she wishes only for us to leave her in peace. She knows we harbor no grudge for her; that we simply adhere to a contract that is purely business. She does not fault us for this."

The master gave him a flat look that told him to hurry on with the point.

"She reminded me that her war is with Lucien, not us. She has no desire to kill more of our brothers than she must to survive, master," Brody grinned suddenly. "She also thinks we are proving rather determined and annoying."

The master laughed at that. "The proposition, Brody. You are no politician, and I am no king to be preached to by an advisor."

"Last I heard, master, she had been heading for the Highwaymen's Guild in Brightwood. Have you heard anything of it?"

"That fool Darius is dead," the master replied matter-of-fact. "The news came in a few nights ago."

"Bloodstone is to be next," Brody said darkly, letting the hint hang in the air. Brody knew she had no idea where the Society was headquartered, but the master didn't.

Old eyes, filled with ages of wisdom and calculation, regarded him silently for a moment. "How did she find out where we are?"

"The highwaymen. They kept pieces of a map on them showing our location. She had killed enough to put it together," he answered without hesitating, the lie flowing off his tongue like water. It was close enough to the truth to be easily believable. The master cursed vehemently, and Brody went on. "Her proposition is simple, master: the lives of our brothers and the continuance of the Society, for her freedom. Rescind the contract with the highwaymen—their guild is leaderless and crumbling as it is. We owe them no love or loyalty, not after we have given them so much of our flesh."

"You ask me to also raise Lucien's ire, pup," the master snarled.

"And he owes us no loyalty, either! You have seen how he collars his spire guards. Do you think he will not try to shorten our leash and control us so, once Sparrow is dealt with? Do you really wish for our order to become one of his pawns?"

"You have a tongue of silver," the master cursed him quietly. "But you will have me risk the Society in the hopes that this girl can keep Lucien at bay. Why do you think that we can not overwhelm her, once she is here and in our territory?"

Brody ripped his mask off his head, letting the master get a good look at his black eye and swollen nose. And then he unbuttoned his shirt, letting the black cloth pool at his feet to show off the myriad of colors that blossomed all over his ribs. Thankfully, her shallow claw marks had managed to heal in the time it took him to get to Bloodstone, or else his ruse may not have been as convincing. "I did not even last five minutes, master," he spoke quietly, letting his actor's skills put shame in his voice. "I did not even blacken her eye, as she did to me."

The master took Brody's chin between his hands, angling his face upwards so he could better inspect the damage Sparrow had down. There was sorrow in the old man's eyes when he let go of him. "These are dark days for the society, my boy, when one of our brothers with Hero blood in his veins is beaten so."

Brody looked down at his feet. It was a huge hit to his reputation, doing what he did now for a woman he hardly knew. And it would only serve to rocket hers to godlike proportions.

"Darker yet, that we are stuck under Lucien's thumb."

"She also offers her services," Brody lied to the worn stones he stared at. "She offers not only Lucien's demise, but a hand to help fulfill the contracts piling up from the deaths of our brothers."

The master leaned back in his throne, the old wood creaking with his slight weight. Brody waited obediently, eyes still downcast as the old man thought. "There is no guarantee that she will kill Lucien."

"There is none that we will kill her either, before she kills us," Brody replied instantly.

The old man sighed, with all the burden the years had put on his shoulders. He placed a delicate hand to Brody's face again, a silent apology for the pain he had suffered at Sparrow's hands. Brody didn't mind it—he'd do it all over again. But he didn't tell the master so. "Let it be known, then," the master started off slowly, "that the contract with the Highwaymen's Guild is hence forth null and void, as the costs have far outweighed the benefits. Sparrow the Lionhearted is to be given her life, in exchange for future services rendered as a hand of the Society."

A scribe nodded before bustling off to his corner, where he began to draw up the necessary papers to alert every assassin still left in the field and the remnants of the Highwaymen's Guild. Whispers went up from the master's court, with Brody's name mentioned just as often as Sparrow's.

The contracts would be slow for him, for a while. He no longer had a perfect record, or a perfect name. Now, he would just be the man that Sparrow had spared, so as to barter peace with the Society. He was the humbled one.

Silently, he cursed that troublesome woman for turning his world upside down. He had hoped to come out of the whole mess as the benevolent one, as the man that saved the Society from certain doom—either at Sparrow's hand or Lucien's. But there was no way he could have worked that story out, not without somehow exposing Sparrow's family and exploiting the master's weakness for children orphaned under such circumstances.

It would have inevitably gotten back to Lucien, and Brody didn't think the corrupt lord was beyond taking advantage of that little tidbit.

"How much time do we have before that girl reaches Bloodstone, Fox?" the master spoke again. "Can we reach her with the news before she gets too close? I would prefer she stayed away from our corrupt town as long as possible."

Brody pulled his shirt back on his shoulders, to give him something to do as he thought. "I'm afraid her path will not turn from Bloodstone, master. There is something else here that she seeks. And I don't know when she will arrive, what with the blockade."

The master let out a weary sigh. "It's inevitable then, I suppose. I'll have Mr. Blank prepare an introductory contract for her while we wait. And since she seems rather fond of you to let you live, Fox, you will be her middle man between her and Mr. Blank. Am I understood?"

Brody swallowed the knot in his throat. He knew that the master would have made him Sparrow's handler, but still he hadn't been prepared for it. In the back of his consciousness, Brody had silently hoped that he wouldn't see Sparrow again. "Certainly, master."

"Good," the old man said decisively. "Now go wash up and get a good meal in you, boy. It looks like the world dragged you through the mud since you've been gone."

Obediently Brody nodded, rising to his feet and giving his master a deep bow before taking a step away from the fragile old man. He turned on his heel after the master nodded back to him, and quickly made his way towards a side door out of the main hall. He sighed with relief as he disappeared into the dark corridor beyond, away from the watchful eyes of his master and his court.

Lying to the man had been a lot harder than he thought. Brody was a good liar, and didn't hesitate to spin a tale when it was necessary. It didn't mean he liked it, though, and he preferred to stay as honest with his brothers in the society as humanly possible. Assassins in general were an honest lot, and the sense of brotherhood they all shared made their relationships nigh near sacred to one another. Add in the fact that the master had saved nearly every single one of them at any given point in time, and it was almost incomprehensible to lie to the old bat.

Brody came to the society ages ago, when he was merely a young pup without a hair to his chin or depth to his voice. He hadn't known what he was then—a Hero—and had been a scrawny little boy with soft hands and no muscle. But he had the hatred, the fire, the undying urge to seek revenge against the men that had destroyed his life.

The master had been awed at the lengths Brody had gone through to find the Society and take out a contract on the lives of the twelve caravan guards that his father had contracted, only to have them ravage the whole line of wagons once they were on the road. He had been penniless, starved, and near the brink of collapse from the beating the pirates had given him for stowing away on their ship. And the wounds the balverine that picked at the corpses of his family had given him burned and oozed foul smelling liquid, refusing to heal.

But he had managed to make it to the master with his proposition. His life to the Society, in exchange for the lives of the bandits.

The master took him in, as he had taken in hundreds of broken boys before him. It had been out of sympathy, at first. No one expected Brody to live with his wounds, and even if he did he would have turned into a balverine himself. But the wounds healed and he stayed a human, and the master knew what he was because of it. The master gave him a new home. A purpose. A reason to get out of bed in the morning. And in time, the emotional scars healed—especially after Steve And Sanguine had brought back twelve heads for him.

The Society had been Brody's safe haven. His only place in the world where everything was blunt and straight forward and hid little behind fancy words and pleasant masks. And here he was, defiling it all with an outlandish tale. At least the master had made him Sparrow's handler, considering the woman had no idea what he had gotten her in to.

Pay back of a sort, he supposed, for what she did to turn his world on its head.

He pushed through a door and into the wide open space of a worn down courtyard. Once it had been a holy place of prayer and worship—now one of the wives of his brothers had turned it into a garden. It was a beautiful, pure place among the shitty hovel that was Bloodstone. Brody loved the garden, as all his brothers did. He could always go there to find some measure of peace and serenity. And, sometimes when the fog off the marshes cleared and the sun shone brightly, Brody could feel Avo's love for that little garden.

For the men that put life back into His temple, despite their own corruption.

Today the garden didn't still Brody's uneasy mind. He was still restless and wound tighter than a clock. Thoughts raced through his head a mile a minute with half-cocked plans of how he would get to Sparrow to explain the situation without any of his brothers finding out. Plans to filch half the contracts Mr. Blank would have for her, so that Brody could use the time to try and figure out why he wasn't getting relief from his kills anymore.

Brody drifted over to a corner of the garden, where a group of his crimson-masked brothers were standing in a half circle around some object of interest. They were chatting absently about the weather and whatever contracts they had taken recently, sharing little tips and tricks of the trade that they all knew anyway. If it hadn't been for their rather macabre discussions, they almost passed off like any other men in a normal city of Albion.

"What's going on?" Brody interjected as he gently set himself between two of his brothers.

Sanguine gave him a surprised look, the assassin's sharp blue eyes taking in his bruised face in one quick look. "Grey fancies himself a dog breeder now. You're back from your contract? That Hero woman didn't gut you like a fish?"

"No, she just pummeled me like a punching bag. Dog breeding?" Brody frowned and looked over the dog Grey had leashed at his side. It was a beautiful creature as far as dogs went, a great big hound with wiry black hair and a definite deer like appearance to it. It sat regally at the brother's side, head held high and thin tail whipping through the dirt on the cobblestones from all the attention.

"Aye!" Grey spoke up proudly. "You know how that Hero of yours has that mutt? He goes for the throat if he can manage it, you know. Right old ferocious beast, that thing. So I figured we ought to maybe start breeding our own war hounds, am I right?"

Brody frowned. "I didn't know that her dog was a warrior hound."

Sanguine chortled and clapped him on the shoulder. "What, you didn't get bitten by the beast when you killed her?"

Brody pulled up his pant leg to show off the scabs Sparrow's dog had given him. They hadn't been fighting at the time, but his brothers didn't need to know that. "She isn't dead. Master has called off the contract."

"Say _what_?" the chorus rose from all of his brothers simultaneously, before they started hammering him with the same questions Steve had. Brody answered them in turn, knowing that he might as well get it all out on the table now. If not, he'd be hounded for months until every one of them had heard the story from his mouth themselves.

While he regaled them with the tale, a grungy old man with a hunched back and an eye patch dragged himself into the courtyard. A cheery big hound much like Grey's walked at his side, nearly gliding over the ground with its elegance. Sparrow's dog lacked half the class as these two hounds, Brody thought, but he was sure it was probably a lot smarter than them. Sparrow didn't have to leash her dog, after all.

"You have me fee?" the old man rasped, voice frail with age. He had no teeth in his mouth, and his hands shook with palsy. Yet Brody could see the intelligence in his one remaining eye. Time had sapped the man of his strength and his faculties, but not his sharp wit.

Grey practically danced with excitement as he drew a little leather purse out of his pocket, and handed it to the hunched man. "I'll give you extra if he sires on the first shot."

The man snorted. "He'll get 'er on the first try, all right. But dogs can get more pups if you let him mount 'er again later."

The brother flapped his hand dismissively. "We'll just get started, shall we? We can discuss a second session after."

Brody chortled alongside with his brothers. Grey was like a little kid on Midwinter's Eve, all because he was getting his bitch knocked up by a fancy hound. It was amusing, really. Assassins and puppies…who would have thought?

They all fell into an easy conversation again as the old man shuffled his way around Grey's dog, his own fancy hound prancing along at his side like it was the best day in the world. Grey's hound ignored the poor beast, despite her tail betraying her interest. Brody didn't even think of them as he faced off with Sanguine, grinning and laughing about how the lanky assassin's last mark had tried to flee out of a fire escape and ended up breaking his own neck when he fell.

Until the coupling beasts caught his attention out of the corner of his eye. Incredulously, he trailed off midsentence and turned to watch the dogs as if they held the answer to every question life could ask. The old man's hound was going to town on Grey's panting bitch, but the dog had his jaws clamped around her neck as if his life depended on it.

"Do they always bite like that?" Brody found himself asking the little old man.

The dog breeder shrugged. "'Casionally. He's young and don't have the confidence the older dogs have. They bite to keep the bitch from turning 'round and taking a chunk of their hide. Dominance and what not."

"Dominance?" Brody couldn't stop staring at the dogs. It was weird, to him, to just be standing there watching dogs get their rocks off. But he was so taken aback by the creatures, too.

"Oh, aye. You ever see the lions in the king's menagerie? They do the same. Most animals do something of the sort, far as my understandin' goes."

Brody was silent for a moment. "And you say this is because of dominance? What, they get a power rush from it?"

The man gave him a sidelong glance as if he were the stupidest creature in the world. "Something like that. Some breeders think it's a sort of last test for the female, to make sure he's got the right stuff to give her the best babies or some such. Some think it's a victory thing. You know how it is, a sort of 'hell yes, lookit what I got'."

Brody laughed because that was what the man was expecting.

Smiling, the old breeder went on. "'Course, sometimes a female will fight and bite and make life hell for the male, even if she wants him to mount her and what not. That's when most dogs bite the neck. Kinda calms her, you see. Tells her that she's not the dominate one at the moment."

"Thank you," Brody murmured quietly before extracting himself from the throng and prowling through the courtyard, towards the little cell that acted as his bedroom. The old breeder had given him a lot to mull over, as well as presenting a new line of thought that hadn't occurred to him.

Maybe he wasn't as screwed up as he thought. With the choking thing, at least. It was easy to figure why he did it when he killed—he liked feeling the life of his marks go through his hands. It was an honest way to kill a man, and rather clean, that is until the corpse voided its bowels and everything. He liked the strain to his body, liked using all of his strength to squeeze a man's throat. It left him without any tension and thoroughly worn out, as if he had just run a marathon or something.

Why he did it with Sparrow, though, was nothing of the sort. Now that he thought of it, they were completely unrelated. It wasn't the feel of her pulse in his hands, or her throat vibrating with her moans—although that was a pretty new experience for him that he found oddly arousing. Hell, he didn't even squeeze very much when he did it. He just held her throat in his hands.

So was it a sort of dominance thing for him, too? Did he simply revert back to a primitive cave man mindset while he was with her? She was a strong woman, like Steve said. And sex between them wasn't a simple toss in the hay. There was a lot of emotional toying between the two of them, full of unvoiced challenges and daring looks.

Hell, it was all about dominance, now that he thought back to it. She hadn't punched him that first night because she was fighting for her life—it was more a statement to him that if he played with the rattlesnake he was going to get bit. It was a defiance, a blatant declaration that while he may have had her prone for a few moments she could—and would—kick his ass any other time.

And he had fought back because he had felt the challenge as easily as he felt the punch. She had dared him, and he took the bait. They exchanged blows—hey, look, you can hurt me but I can hurt you, they said. And then he had taken it into a whole different realm when he kissed her.

Power play, indeed. She came back with a head butt that told him that _she_ was the one that would initiate things, not him. And she had when she yanked him back down for that kiss before stripping him naked.

And he hadn't been trying to pin her hands because he was trying to protect himself. He was trying to control her, and the situation. He wanted to be in charge, and he managed to do so after he buried himself in her. But her claws on his hide had told him that while he was the one calling the shots for the moment it was only because she let him.

He laughed with relief as he slipped into his room, leaning against the heavy oak door as he closed it. It was so simple and so gods damned complicated all at once, now that he gave it some thought. He wasn't choking her when he put his hands on her throat, no, not like he had been when he thought he was just going to kill her. When he wrapped his hands around her neck as he came, it was one last shot at her, like the old dog breeder had said, "Hey, look what I got. Look who finished on top, dove."

So stupid and so silly when Brody thought it through. But now that he could make sense of it all, it was so…alluring. Steve's speech on that Oakfield road had hit a lot closer to home than he had thought. Brody had enjoyed the challenge that Sparrow represented. The hunt, the thrill of catching her at last, and then winning something from her that was not easily given. It was all quite excellent.

She was no gentle, submissive serving girl that Brody was accustomed to. Sparrow had managed to take something that had always been sort of mundane and repetitive for him, and turned it into a game. Not just any game, but a bloody _mind_ game. She toyed with him and gave him hell, and oddly…oddly is satisfied a primitive side of him he had been unaware of.

Laughing, Brody eased out of his dirty traveling clothes and tossed them in a corner to be dealt with later. The dark part of his mind that had called him all kinds of names for his new found fetish was finally silent, after over a week of hard travel chock full of tense moments. The relief was palpable, and put him in a ridiculously good mood. He didn't even hunger for a kill, now that he had managed to solve one puzzle and file it away for another day.

Gods, he felt good as he threw himself down on his threadbare bed and had himself a hearty little nap. He fell asleep readily for once, his mind not haunting him for the things he had done.

* * *

I'm glad this story is starting to pick up on the readers! It was a little slow to get some action, but I blame the fact that Fable isn't a very large...um, following? Idk! Please keep reading and reviewing, and by all means feel free to share it with your friends! ^_~ Buaha.


	7. Chapter 7

Title: To Kill a Sparrow  
Chapter: 7  
Rating: M  
Chapter Warning: Cursing, harmless flirting. I swear.  
Pairings: FemSparrow x OC  
Disclaimer: Fable, Fable II, etc, belongs to LionHead Studios. I make no profit from this work of tribute to my favorite NPCs in the series. Please don't sue me, grumpy British game developers. :(

* * *

When Sparrow first walked into Bloodstone, the whole town seemed to have held its breath with surprise. Unlike all of the traffic that came to the town these days, she had chosen the path that few—if any—ever traveled. She didn't arrive on a merchant ship or a pirate vessel. No, not Sparrow. Maybe it wasn't dramatic enough for her. Instead, she had walked right out of the fog and into town like a phantom, having chosen to travel through Wraithmarsh.

Of course, the rumors spread like wildfire before she even had time to enter the city proper. Word traveled ahead of her, spreading tales of grandiose heroism and adventures unheard of in the world since the Heroes' Guild fell five hundred years ago. She was a witch, some said, and used some fel magic to transport her to the Wraithmarsh. The dead that haunted the marshes had been so terrified of her, that they had let her pass without challenge.

Bullshit, Brody thought as he watched her prowl the worn cobblestones of dock-side Bloodstone. She was covered head to toe in all sorts of muck, from blood to bog water to dusty scraps of hollow men clothes. Every step she took her boots made sickening squelching noises with whatever had gotten stuck in there, and left wet foot prints for villagers to follow. She had a wild look in her eyes behind the veil of her mask, as if she were still riding an adrenaline high from battle.

The mutt at her side was in no better shape, its fur stuck into wet tufts and mud shading him an unpleasant shade of murky green.

They both looked tired, Brody thought as he took a break in his work. He had been hauling sacks of grain from a merchant's stall on the water front to the Society's worn hand cart. Steve stood beside him, the two of them shirtless and missing their masks, wearing only modest brown leather boots and plain breeches.

They looked like any other citizen of Bloodstone, if a bit more well off than the norm.

Steve let out a long, low whistle. "That's her, eh?"

Brody nodded and wiped his forehead on the back of his arm. Much good that did him, he snorted to himself, considering he was covered in sweat no matter where he looked.

Laughing, Steve shook his head as they watched her stroll along the docks as if she owned the place. Everyone watched her. "Did she steal those clothes off highwaymen corpses?"

"Yes; she's rather fond of the coat, I think. You should see her fighting in it, she makes it much more stylish than our thieving counterparts," Brody grinned as her eyes swept right over him without a second glance. So their intimate time spent together hadn't compromised him after all, had it?

He didn't know whether to be pleased or disappointed, actually.

"Want me to go find out what inn she'll be staying at?" Steve was already wiping his hands on his breeches, and grabbing his shirt from the front of the cart.

Brody threw a rock at him. "Oh, no you don't. You're not getting out of work that easily, you lazy bastard."

"Ow! That hurt, you great cock-blocking prick," Steve grumbled and gave him a forlorn look. "I'm trying to make your job easier!"

"I'm sure," Brody chuckled and dodged a lazy fist his brother threw his way. It was always like this when they were out of uniform and away from the monastery—they both reverted to twelve year old boys tossing jabs at each other every five seconds, both in the literal and figurative sense.

Mr. Blank appeared out of nowhere as Brody wrestled Steve into a headlock, his fist grinding against the man's head with an affectionate noogie. "Assassins don't have days off, boys," the man drawled.

It took Brody and Steve a few moments to untangle themselves and school their faces into some semblance of seriousness as they faced off with the assassin. "Then what is it you do sitting down here by the docks all the time, Blank my buck?" Steve barely managed to keep a straight face.

Mr. Blank rolled his eyes behind his mask, before pointing an accusing finger at Brody. "You have a job to do, Mr. Fox. Do not forget."

"I'm hauling sacks as fast as I can," Brody whined, failing to show the self control that Steve had. He grinned like an idiot.

Mr. Blank was nonplussed. "Let some mangy dockworker do that. Gods know these poor souls need the coin. Get changed, and take Mr. Steve with you to confront the Hero. The master wishes for her never to step foot towards the Society's haven. Get to her before she decides to come to us."

Brody opened his mouth to throw out another witty comment, but Mr. Blank was already turning and heading back into the crowds. Steve jovially clapped him on the shoulder. "Do you think she'd be interested in a three-some?"

Brody choked on his own spit. "_Excuse _me?"

"Not your thing? No? Ah, well, figured I'd ask," Steve cackled and snatched a pack containing their usual uniforms from the hand cart.

The merchant that had been helping them pick out sacks of grain least likely to be plagued with mildew or rot gave them a wary look that had Brody slipping the poor man a couple extra gold pieces. "No trouble for you today, Sal. Mind finding us a drudge to finish this up?"

Sal shook his head energetically. "'Course not, Fox. Want me to have him drag it to the haven while he's at it?"

Brody nodded and watched as Steve wandered off towards Mr. Blank's contract outpost, shoulders back and chest puffed out like he was a strutting rooster. "Yes that will be fine. Charge it to our tab, would you?"

"Certainly, Mr. Fox, most certainly. What kind of mess are you two going to get yourselves in to? So I know to stay away, of course," Sal smiled slowly, his teeth unusually white and straight in city typically void of hygiene of any sort.

"You know I can't discuss those things, Sal."

"Oh yes, certainly, I understand. But you aren't going to pay our lady Hero a visit, are you?" and at that the merchant's voice dropped low, holding the slightest hint of a threat. It had been the most Brody had ever heard out of the man, who was usually wont to scraping and bowing in the hopes of making a good sale to the Society.

Brody's eyebrows climbed his forehead in surprise. "And if we were?"

"Just know that she saved my hide on the Bower Lake Road. There'll be a lot of angry merchants sailing to Bloodstone if she turns up missing her head in the morning," Sal replied meaningfully, before he reverted back towards his normal, jovial self. "So, anything else the Society needs before you head off, Mr. Fox?"

Slightly disturbed by Sal's reaction, Brody could only manage to shake his head before turning towards Mr. Blank's house. It was the first time he ever had to fight the urge not to turn his back on the merchant, some part of his subconscious glaringly awake to the concept that he could end up with a dagger in his back if word got around that the Society was visiting Sparrow.

So, he was a little bit more paranoid than usual as he weaved through the midday market crowds. His eyes searched the throngs, looking for a threat that would never come. No one messed with a Society member in Bloodstone. Not murderers, rapists, thieves, highwaymen, pirates… It didn't matter who. You didn't risk invoking the wrath of an entire society of assassins unless you had a death wish.

Steve was already half dressed by the time Brody slipped through the tattered door and grabbed his clothes from the equally tattered table. Mr. Blank ignored them both, leaning back in his chair and sipping tea from an expensive tea cup as he watched the world move by through the house's grimy windows. "I wish you moved half this quick when we're on contracts together," Brody huffed.

Steve flashed him a brilliant grin without a gap or a stained tooth. Assassins and merchants were a lot alike, when it came to bathing daily and brushing their teeth. "It's not polite to keep a lady waiting, Fox. Wouldn't want to set a bad first impression, would we?"

Brody pointed at his nose. The swelling had finally gone down, but the poor thing was still bruised. So was his eye. Big surprise Sparrow hadn't recognized him just from the damage she had done to him. Then again, she was in Bloodstone…every other man on the street had a black eye from brawling. "I think my first impression has already been set in stone, Steve."

The assassin cackled and shook his head, tugging on his black shirt and an even blacker over coat. He pulled his mask on last, the crimson fabric hiding his head of unruly brown hair and the age lines creasing his forehead. He looked a lot younger when the only visible signs of aging anyone could see were the crinkles at the corners of his mouth.

And with the donning of his uniform, his maturity seemed to return to him in a rush. Brody watched quietly as Steve took a chair at Mr. Blank's side and struck up a quick conversation about any good contracts coming in lately. Frowning, Brody stripped out of his sweaty dock clothes and pulled on his own black uniform as quickly as possible. The transformation from simple laborer to an assassin was one he did often, and it always left him feeling a little hollow inside.

It reminded him that when he was out of uniform and walking among the citizens of Albion, that he was living a lie. A normal life had been taken from him when he was young, and he would never get it back. He had seen and done too much to ever forget what he was, although the temporary acts at normalcy made him feel better every now and then.

Steve and him were quiet as they moved through the streets of Bloodstone, not asking any questions but gaining information nonetheless. Villagers moved about like a stirred beehive, circulating rumors about Sparrow quicker than the wind could carry it. Not even the dark presence of two assassins listening to a trader boast to his customer about how Sparrow had bought out his stock of fresh fruit deterred the man.

It was easy to find the inn she picked to stay in. People were flooding into the common room, buying drinks to placate an irate inn keeper, but openly gawking at the Hero that sat in one corner sipping away at a beer. Brody supposed that the fates had to have a hand in her choice, since she had managed to pick the same place he had killed that man. Absently, he wondered who owned it now as him and Steve took seats on the polar opposite corner of the room from her.

She noticed them right away, probably the moment they had walked in the room. Her blues eyes flickered to watch them for a moment, before she was back to restlessly scanning the crowd and nursing her drink. Brody caught how she moved her foot subtly, though, pushing out one of the chairs at her table.

"She's inviting us over," he murmured under his breath, lips barely moving as he flagged down a serving girl.

Steve hid his grin in the collar of his coat as he made a show of settling down in his chair. "That was easier than I thought."

Brody snorted and ordered them both a pint of Bowerstone Ale. "Don't get lax with her, Steve. She'll invite you to her table one moment and slide a knife through your ribs the second."

"Funny, I didn't peg her as a knife kind of girl, although I suppose those hands of hers look deft enough for it," Steve chortled quietly and crossed his arms over his wide chest. Steve wasn't a small man. In his youth, before joining the Society, he had been a boxer in Westcliffe's underground fighting circuit. Age and a life of sneaky killing hadn't lessened his bulk or put him out of shape.

Brody suddenly, oddly enough, felt threatened by the man. Frowning, he fell silent as he made it a point not to pay him or Sparrow any attention. Instead, he watched the crowd of villagers. A small group of them were trying to work up the courage to go talk to her, while another was starting a pool of some sort. The serving girl brought them their drinks, leaving without so much as a flirty wink or suggestive touch.

Brody scowled and watched the girl. It was rare for any working girl in Bloodstone not to use her sexuality to get herself bigger tips. But as he watched her, he noticed that the woman was fluffing her ample cleavage and batting dark eye lashes in Sparrow's general direction.

He laughed, and didn't even try to hide it. "Did you see that?"

Steve snickered. "Are you telling me I have competition not only from every man in Bloodstone, but the women too?"

The girl made her way over to Sparrow, hips sashaying to and fro like the most professional prostitute in Bloodstone. She hiked her already short skirt shorter, and made sure Sparrow and the whole common room got a peak at her knickers as she bent to whisper something in the Hero's ear. The two talked for a moment, before Sparrow sent the girl back to the counter with her order and a slap to her rump.

Brody choked on his ale. Sparrow's eyes laughed mischievously at him.

"Oi, when are we going to move in before she takes some sot up to her room with her?" Steve grumped, his smile gone.

"You want to talk to her about a hit in front of the whole town?" Brody gasped as he wiped at his mouth, praying like hell he didn't spill any liquor on his clothes. That would be his luck.

"Suppose you have a point," Steve sighed dramatically. "What is it you propose, then?"

Brody ignored him and he took the point. Brody tried to ignore the Hero and failed miserably. Every couple of seconds his eyes invariably strayed towards her corner, and eerily enough hers were there to meet them. But she was busy entertaining one villager after the next, telling her tales and joking with the dirtiest of them. Eventually, a bard wandered into the inn to make his month's pay reciting ballads of the Hero.

The evening passed agonizingly slow for Brody, but he had his game plan set and forced himself to lie in wait. Sparrow was another mark to him at the moment, and he was on just another hunt. Watch the crowds. Watch her. Wait for the perfect opportunity.

It came when the villagers became so preoccupied with the bard's masterful show that Sparrow took the time to sneak upstairs. Steve pushed his chair back to stand up, but Brody stayed him with a hand. The older assassin sat back down with a perturbed look tossed in Brody's direction. "You just like the mounting tension, don't you?"

Grinning, Brody nursed his ale. As he suspected, the whole common room went up with a great roar of activity once they noticed that the object of their collective affection had slipped from right under their noses. Steve chortled in amusement as bouncers had to move into place at the foot of the stairs to keep love struck idiots from hunting Sparrow down, and even more got into brawls. "You're working with the great Fox, Steve. Or did you forget?"

"I am remiss, my lord," Steve's eyes danced behind his mask as he watched a man get thrown through a table. It took a lot of bouncers and a lot of angry stabs of the barmaids' knives to calm the masses, but eventually drunk fools staggered home and curious gossipers left. The bard plinked away at his lute strings for the few remaining patrons, singing soft, emotional songs that killed any aggressive thoughts.

Brody watched as a serving girl rushed down the stairs, arms laden with a heavy pack that stunk of the marsh. He smirked and finally stood from his chair. Not even waiting for his partner for the night, he left payment for their drinks on the table and left the inn out the front door. He was quick and impatient as he trailed around to the backside of the building, his eyes adjusting quickly to the darkness of the night. And with a deft leap he was on top of a pile of crates, landing silently and as stealthy as a cat before he grabbed hold of the inn's bottom story drain pipes and hauled himself up.

Steve followed just as silently.

Quickly the two men scaled the inn's shambled walls, being careful not to loose a plank or kick the siding. Crouched low, Brody ran along the rotting shingles of the roof, peaking in one steepled window after the next. There were only five to choose from on the backside of the inn, and if he knew Sparrow any she'd be in one of them.

Jack pot. Smirking the whole time, Brody set himself flush to the frame and worked a flat metal dagger from its sheathe in his boot top. The thing wasn't a very effective killing tool, considering how flimsy it was. But when it came to breaking and entering or making a last ditch effort at killing a mark, it was eerily effective. Sliding it slowly under the window sill, he felt a thrill at the feel of the latch catching on the blade.

He hadn't even notice that his breath went short with the thrill of the hunt coming to a conclusion. Didn't notice the tell-tale turning in his gut and the fluttering of his heart. Steve watched his brother warily, though, hand hovering over a dagger at his waist in case the assassin decided to take his revenge on the Hero.

Steve didn't know that it was a different sort of thrill that had taken Brody.

The latch came free with a soft click. Frozen where he crouched, Brody waited patiently for any hint of sound or movement from the room. When no shadow moved across the soft flickering that poured out the window, he moved to pry the frame open.

It seemed like ages as he worked at the thing. Bit by tiny bit, with agonizing patience and control, he slid the window open without even a tiny squeak or protest of ancient wood. He was inside her room in a heartbeat, boots landing softly on grubby wooden floors.

"You have a thing for shitty timing, don't you?" Sparrow drawled.

Brody grinned even though her quick response showed that she knew he was at her window. Felt a ripple of pleasure go up his spine because even though she knew, she was still lounging in a rusting tub in the corner, running a washcloth over her blue-marked skin.

She gave him a coy smile, before her face hardened. "Brought a friend, did you?"

And then Brody's excitement deflated in a rush of air. Steve was behind him, lounging against the window frame. He was oddly angered that the assassin had followed like he was supposed to. "Ignore him, I usually do."

Steve was silent as his eyes raked over Sparrow, naked as the day she was born and seemingly uncaring that two deadly men were in the room with her.

"This is payback, isn't it?" Sparrow sighed, as if she were bored. "I suppose I deserve it."

Something sniffed at Brody's leg and he looked down to find her dog circling his legs. The creature was wagging its tail cheerily, before it gave a happy little yip and pranced over to leap into the tub with Sparrow. A smile teased at her lips but was never born as the dog practically lay across her to cover her nudity. "Master's orders, dove, you know how it is."

She nodded as if she really did. Brody doubted she took orders from anyone, though. "So the Highwaymen's Guild will be a long time rebuilding."

"So I've heard," Brody feigned his own boredom as he went to pull an aged wooden chair over to the tub. He sat beside her, whipping a dagger out of his pants and promptly setting about cleaning his nails. If she wanted to pretend that they were having tea, then he would go along with it.

"And I assume that since you haven't tried to choke me yet," her eyes danced at him through her mask of calm, and he felt something stir in the general area of his groin, "that the Society won't be next on my list?"

He gave her a look full of meaning. One that was laden with raunchy suggestions and silent warnings not to let Steve on to his ruse. "The master has accepted your offer. The Society has annulled their agreement with the Highwaymen's Guild, in exchange for your aid with the contracts that are piling up unanswered due to our sudden and unfortunate shortage of employees."

She snorted, before breaking down into a hearty round of laughter. Brody kept picking at his nails. Steve shifted uneasily at his post by the window. After a few minutes, Sparrow managed to calm herself enough to lightly punch Brody in the shoulder. Heaven be praised, she didn't say a word about her ignorance to his plan or the deal he struck on her behalf.

Grinning at her, he snatched the washcloth from her hand and scooted his chair behind her. "I'm to introduce you to our broker, the man who takes contracts from the general populace and assigns them to an assassin. He has one waiting for you that shouldn't be too much of a problem."

She huffed and watched the second assassin in the room as Brody moved her wet hair from her neck, and set about scrubbing at the film of marsh muck on her back. "Afraid I'm not subtle enough for you?"

"The last thing you are is subtle," Brody smiled, watching as the tension in her shoulders slowly eased under his administrative touch. "I made sure your name was put on the same list as mine. Wouldn't want you sullying your reputation by killing innocent men, would we?"

"No, I suppose not. So rapists, bandits, and murderers for me?"

"Afraid so. Maybe the occasional corrupt politician or guard. They're the fun ones." He paused to pull his black leather gloves off his hands with his teeth, and let them drop to the floor by his feet. Dipping the washcloth in the water, he dragged the coarse material along her shoulders, his eyes following its path.

It was hypnotizing watching the water run in sleek rivulets down her skin. Especially over the Will Lines…

"How long will you be in Bloodstone?" he spoke softly.

She sighed. "Who knows? Villagers are already approaching me with all their little problems. I could be a while sorting it all through. And Reaver's men wouldn't let me close to his mansion."

Brody scowled. "What do you want with Reaver?"

"He has something I want," was her simple reply.

"Reaver's at sea for the time being I'm afraid," Steve finally spoke up at last, his voice deep and smooth as honey.

Brody barely resisted the urge to shoot the man a dark scowl. "Yes, Lucien's men have made his career of piracy rather difficult of late."

Sparrow growled her displeasure. "How long is he usually gone?"

Steve rushed to answer before Brody could. "Months at a time, usually. It's been about three weeks since he left, and he only took enough water for two months. So another five or six weeks, unless he steals some from another ship."

The lady Hero kept growling, and busied herself with washing the grime from her dog's fur. The beast whined happily, tail swishing through the water and splashing it all over the floor. "I need to be back in Oakfield in three. Is there no way to reach him before then?"

"Unless you charter a merchant vessel fast enough to evade Lucien's ships and tasty enough to catch Reaver's eye?" Steve queried casually. "No. The only merchants that willingly travel to or from Bloodstone carry simple goods like food and clothing—nothing of real value. And they use the most ram shod ships to do so, so as to avoid Reaver in the first place."

"Well then I suppose I'll be in town for a week or so," she sighed over her shoulder to Brody. He plopped the washcloth down on her face.

"And back in four, six at the most?" he got up from his chair, snatching his gloves up as he did. He felt her eyes on his back as he went to stand beside his brother, one foot already braced on the window sill.

She nodded. "Off to tell your master?"

"Your presence makes him nervous," Brody smirked.

"As it should!" she smirked back, and went right back to bathing. "When do I get to meet your broker?"

"In a few days. I'll give you time to settle in and enjoy Bloodstone."

She snorted derisively. "What little there is to enjoy. Perhaps I'll take in a bordello or two."

Brody's mood went sour.

"Could always stop by the haven," Steve chuckled, oozing charm as he did. "I'm sure you'd find what you're looking for there."

Sparrow's eyes went dark with some emotion as she looked past Steve to Brody. "Oh, I'm sure."

Brody gave her a look, before slipping out of the window. Steve followed right behind him, leaving the window wide open for the cool night air to breeze through.


	8. Chapter 8

Title: To Kill a Sparrow  
Chapter: 8  
Rating: M  
Chapter Warning: Cursing. As always.  
Pairings: FemSparrow x OC  
Disclaimer: Fable, Fable II, etc, belongs to LionHead Studios. I make no profit from this work of tribute to my favorite NPCs in the series. Please don't sue me, grumpy British game developers. :(  
A/N: Sorry for the delay in the update! I had a friend visiting me in town and was moving all my crap back to my apartment for the start of the semester. Here's installation 8! Character development!

* * *

"You slept with her!" Steve cawed.

Brody winced and rounded on the man. "What the bloody hell are you talking about?"

They were slipping among the shadows on a barren hillside, working their way home for the night. Not a living soul was anywhere in eyesight, let alone ear shot, but Brody looked about himself with worry anyway.

"Oh, please, Fox. Chemistry like that doesn't come about from a beating unless it involves her hand and your—"

Brody clamped a hand over his friend's mouth. "Not another word, Steve," he snarled dangerously.

But Steve's eyes danced with amusement and his whole body shook with laughter. "You," he gasped after tearing his mouth away from Brody's hand, "the great Fox. Lover of the wee gentle lasses! Boinking a strong Hero girl like Sparrow! And your speech had been so convincing about wanting a woman innocent of our world!"

"Gods damn it, Steve!"

"I just hope that if you are ever in the same room with her and the master that your act at nonchalance is more convincing than that sad display back there!" Steve kept laughing, walking right past Brody with a happy spring to his step.

"There is nothing to act at," Brody huffed irritably and hurried to catch up to his brother, pulling the cheery assassin to a halt on the hillside. If they were going to have this conversation, Brody preferred that they had it here where no villagers or brothers of the Society could over hear. "I don't know what you think you saw back there, but that was definitely not it!"

Steve snorted. "Fox, I love you as my own brother. Really, I do, but if you keep lying to me about it I'm going to break that nose of yours again. Did she even really give you that?"

Brody scowled, before gritting between his teeth, "Yes."

"But you did sleep with her, eh?" Steve was grinning with a smug look on his maw. When all Brody did was grit his teeth together in response, the older assassin laughed. "I called it! Bloody hell, I called it!"

"What the hell are you talking about, Steve?"

"Oh come on, Brody, don't be so pissy," Steve laughed, his belly shaking with the effort. "The moment you came back we started a pool why Sparrow let you weasel out alive. I had a hundred gold riding that she wanted to boink you. I didn't know she already had!"

"That's the only reason you wanted to tag along, wasn't it?" Brody's voice was rising with anger.

"Well, one of them. I _did_ secretly hope that maybe she just had a thing for assassins, and would find me more alluring," Steve's voice dropped down to his honeyed purr as if to demonstrate. "But damn, you should have seen that look she gave me while you were getting your rocks off washing her back. Chilled me to the bone, it did."

Brody frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Let's just say I'm not collecting on my bet until you spill the beans yourself," Steve huffed, suddenly somber. "I don't want to wake up dead because I opened my mouth and got you killed, Fox."

Still frowning his displeasure, Fox let out a huge sigh before clapping Steve on the shoulder. They turned back to their path home, walking in silence for a while. Brody's mind was racing, though. How had Sparrow looked at Steve? He wished he had caught it. What did it mean, that Steve thought she'd kill him if something happened to Brody because their secret got out?

"Did we really have chemistry?" he asked when the thought got too loud to bear in silence.

Steve chortled. "Are you kidding me? You got hard the minute you saw her, and she looked about ready to jump your bones until she saw me."

Brody punched him in the arm.

"And that little running banter you had with her? Laced with innuendo, my friend," Steve punched him back. "Do I get to hear why you waited till she was in the bath to make your move?

"No."

"Do I get any dirty little details?" Steve chuckled, leaning conspiratorially closer to his friend. "She likes it rough, I gander, if she broke your nose in the process."

"She did that when we were fighting," Brody huffed. "And no!"

"Then what's with all those blue lines all over her? It looks like her skin was porcelain and someone decided to take a ball peen hammer to her. Don't get me wrong, it was oddly arousing, but I've never seen the like!"

"I hadn't thought of it that way. I thought they looked more like veins, personally."

"I like my way better. The way you put it makes it sound like she has varicose veins or some rot." Steve pulled him to a stop. "Is that what's going to happen to you, Fox?"

Brody tried not to look perturbed. "What do you mean?"

His brother gestured to his neck, where the tall collar of his coat kept his skin well hidden. It was meant to protect their throats from getting cut themselves. "Nights like this you used to keep your coat open all the time. Now I don't even see you in dark halls without it pulled tight."

Growling in frustration, Brody unbuttoned his coat and pulled the collar away from his throat. Steve let out a long, low whistle when he saw the soft blue light winding its way in a haphazard pattern around his friend's throat. The light was still soft, still barely visible. But it was a hell of a lot brighter than it had been even a few weeks ago. It seemed that his last bought of using Will to light his bath fire at Sparrow's house had re-ignited the advance of the Will Lines.

"It's going to be awfully hard to hide in the shadows when you glow like the bloody moon, Fox," Steve swore under his breath, leaning in closer to get a better look. "Do all Heroes get them?"

Brody yanked his coat closed, turning his back on his brother as he resumed their journey. "Hell if I know, Steve."

"Well what causes it?"

Brody decided that Steve was much too curious for his own good. "Using Will, I suppose. I don't bloody know, for the love of the gods, Steve! Just bugger off about it, would you?"

"I'm just worried about you, you daft idiot. I didn't know you could use Will. I've never seen you do it!" Steve hurried to keep up with Brody's suddenly brisk pace.

"Probably because I'll only use it when a balverine is trying to disembowel me or a horde of hobbes are trying to gnaw my legs off," Brody ground out impatiently. "Will you just leave it alone, Steve?"

"How come you didn't use any to try and kill Sparrow?" Steve went on anyway. Realization suddenly dawned on him. "You weren't trying to kill her when you fought, were you? You weren't going to carry out your contract even before you two did the nasty!"

"Leave it alone, Steve!"

"Oh no, no, no, no," Steve huffed under his breath, rushing to block Brody's path. "No, I'm not leaving it alone. I understand leaving out the tasty tidbit about you two, Fox, I really do. But you _lied_ to the master about even trying to kill her! What the hell happened to you, Fox? You abandoned a contract before you even tried, and picked a fight anyway? And _somehow_ you expect me to believe that you just ended up in bed with her afterward?"

Brody tried to slip past his brother, but the shorter man was quick to keep in his path. "Don't make me punch your lights out, Steve."

"You can try, Fox, but I haven't lost my boxer's perseverance," Steve shoved him as if to demonstrate. "And if you don't want me running to the master about you losing it, I suggest you tell me what happened!"

"She has kids, Steve!" Brody exploded, shoving his brother back harder than necessary. "Bloody kids! Sparrow's a gods damned mother!"

Steve was taken aback. "Excuse me?"

"_Ten_ of them! Do you know what that was _like_ for me, Steve? Stalking this bloody target that for all intents and purposes is a fucking guardian angel to all of Albion, and seeing her pamper ten little tikes as if the world revolved around them? _Do you_?" he bellowed, anger making any sense of caution flee into the night. Snarling, he paced like a caged tiger in front of Steve, raking his arm across his mouth before throwing his arms up in the air with a sigh of disgust.

"Fox I didn't know—"

"I don't kill mothers, Steve!" Brody rounded on him. "And don't you _ever_ say that I didn't even try on this contract! I stalked her for weeks, from Bowerstone to Oakfield just waiting for the right moment. I was ready to do it, Steve, ready to kill someone that wasn't a murderer or a rapists or some twisted bandit! I was ready to forsake what morality I had left for that contract!"

"Fox—"

"But I can't kill someone's mom!" Brody roared at him. "I _can't_!"

Steve wrapped his arms around his brother in a massive bear hug, holding on tight even as Brody snarled and tried to wrench free. "I get it, Brody!"

Hearing his name from his brother, his friend, stilled him at last. Breathing hard, Brody stood there silently blinking away tears he hadn't known were in his eyes. He had been so angry at his brother, so pissed off and hurt that the man had demeaned his effort so easily. That someone he respected and thought so highly of could think so little of him. And he had been so angry at himself, a thought he hadn't even realized. He'd been pissed at himself for even taking the contract on Sparrow, knowing that she was already a person he normally wouldn't even consider killing long before he saw any of her children.

"I'm sorry," Steve growled under his breath, still pinning Brody's straining arms against the Hero's sides. "You hear me?"

Brody swallowed hard, trying to force the knot from his tight throat. "I'm not just a murderer, Steve," he croaked.

"No, you're not."

"I don't kill innocent people. I don't kill mothers."

"I know. I was wrong."

Pain burned in the back of Brody's head. His eyes and chest ached. Rain started to fall in fat little droplets on his face, but he ignored them. "I can't take a mother from her children, Steve."

"I know."

Brody started trembling as memories long buried started to rise from the depths of his mind. "I can't do that to them. What if they ended up like us? Bitter and resentful of the whole world and killing for a living."

Steve finally let go of him at last, clapping him gently on the arm. "That's why the whole Society respects you, Fox."

Brody looked at him quizzically.

"Ever since you were just a boy," Steve laughed sadly, "you were always aware of the consequences of everything you did. Remember your first contract? It was that trader out in Westcliffe that killed his slave over a missing gold piece. First thing you asked was if anyone would miss him, and when you found out he was beating his wife it was over for that sot."

"What do you mean?"

"What I mean is you remind all of us that we're not murderers," Steve spoke gently. "That what we do is give boys and girls that suffered as we did some justice. We give closure. We keep people who are capable of moving on from turning into bitter, resentful assassins who see the faces of those that hurt them in every mark they take. That we're different from highwaymen and bandits. We don't destroy the lives of those we leave behind."

Brody's throat worked like mad to keep from sobbing. "She has beautiful children."

"With a face like hers? I'm sure she does," Steve grinned.

"Why did I take that contract, then, Steve?" Brody asked desperately, hoping like hell that his brother would have the answer. "Why the hell did the master let me? Why did the Society even agree to help the highwaymen? Or Lucien?"

Steve shook his head sadly. "I don't know, Fox. These are hard times we're in, the master did what he thought would best ensure the continuance of the Society. As for why you took it? That's something you'll have to figure out yourself."

Brody looked to his feet. The drizzle was starting to turn into a proper downpour, with thunder rolling in the distance. "Well I know it wasn't to keep your ass from taking it and getting killed."

Steve barked with a short laugh. "No I'm sure that definitely wasn't the reason."

Brody looked back up at him with bloodshot eyes. "I think I'm going to go back to that inn and have another pint."

"I'm sure," Steve purred suggestively. "Have a good evening, Fox."

"Brody," he corrected quietly.

Steve stared at him for a moment. "Are you sure?"

"Just between the two of us," Brody nodded slowly. "I'm sure."

"All right. Good night, Brody," Steve replied warily, watching for his brother's reaction. But Brody simply nodded in satisfaction, before turning tail and jogging back down the hill. Steve watched him silently until his brother disappeared, the bright crimson of his mask fading into the blackness last.


	9. Chapter 9

Title: To Kill a Sparrow  
Chapter: 9  
Rating: M  
Chapter Warnings: SUPER DUPER M RATED. Smut chapter, basically, with a good dose of character development (of course).  
Pairings: Fem!Sparrow x OC  
Disclaimer: As always, I don't own any part of the Fable franchise other than a healthy dose of imagination with LionHead's toys.  
A/N: Uh yeah no excuse for how long I've been gone from the FFnet scene other than school kicking my arse some more. Apologies are in order, and I bring a chapter update (that was written, like, a year ago).

* * *

A storm rolled in off the sea, all fierce wind, slanting rain, and booming thunder. Lightning lit Sparrow's room erratically, throwing every little shadow into stark relief against the walls. She flopped over in frustration, growling at the storm that kept her from getting some much needed rest. After fighting her way to the top of Garth's tower—and taking a royal beating from Lucien's men—only to end up waking up in Wraithmarsh in a cage, followed by a rather long and weary traipse through a haunted bog, she really needed to sleep.

Her body ached something mighty fierce. She may be a Hero, but she was unaccustomed to long, drawn out battles with just her and Hammer versus a whole brigade of Lucien's army. The beating those men had given her she gave back ten-fold, but not without her body paying the price. The failed way gate had drained the rest of her strength. And slogging through untold miles of bog land while blasting through hordes of hollow men and the odd banshee or two took what little energy she had left.

She was mentally and physically exhausted.

But she was hot in her stuffy room and unable to crack a window due to the rain. The thunder kept her on the brink of sleep, and the wind slammed the rain against the windows with an unceasing barrage of sharp, staccato pings. Wherever Reaver happened to be, she hoped he was just as miserable in this storm as she was.

Rose whimpered and hopped on her bed, tail tucked against his belly as he wriggled under the blankets alongside his master. Sparrow laughed softly, patting the dog's head as he let out a massive sigh. "Just a storm, boy."

Rose sighed again and gave her a sidelong, pitiful look. "It's the end of the world," his eyes seemed to say.

Thunder boomed loud enough to shake the entire inn, and with it came a cold gust of air that wailed through Sparrow's room, bringing the rain with it. She shot out of her bed in a heartbeat, halfway across the room to attempt pulling the windows closed before she ever saw the shadow in her room.

It grabbed her up in a pair of big, strong arms and crushed its lips to hers. Groaning, she pressed her body against the shadow as it slammed the window closed upon the sill. "What took you so long?" she gasped, uncaring that the shadow was soaking her night shirt.

The shadow didn't seem to care either as his mouth reclaimed hers again with a desperate kiss. "It's sprinkling out and I forgot my parasol," Brody grumbled against her lips.

She laughed softly and stepped backwards as he pushed her with his body. Already his heavy hands were on her thighs, kneading her muscles as they wandered inevitably up her night shirt. Their bodies pulled away just long enough for him to slide the thin fabric off over her head, before he was pressing himself to her again.

Her legs hit the bedside and she fell backwards onto the comforter, watching him loom over her through half lidded eyes. She couldn't make out his details as lightning lit him from behind, but she felt his eyes raking over her as she stretched out on the bed before him. Smiling, she lazily ran a hand down her stomach and into the short patch of curls between her legs.

He growled deep in his throat and hurried out of his coat. She laughed huskily, spreading her legs wide and giving him a look at what was taking him so long to get at. He cursed her under his breath as he wrestled out of his soaked clothes—leaving only his mask on. His skin was cold and clammy from the rain as he grabbed her wrists in one of his massive hands, pinning her arms above her head as he climbed onto the bed with her.

Sparrow sighed in satisfaction as his weight settled against her, the hard length of his manhood pressed snug against her belly as he kissed at her neck. The stubble of his jaw scratched at her even as his teeth nipped gently, working casually to draw a soft moan from her lips. His hands—satisfied that hers were staying put—wandered over her slowly, his touch firm and heavy but oddly reverent. It was as if he were memorizing her every curve and scar, while simultaneously reassuring himself that she was really there.

He surged against her and her thoughts turned flighty at the feel of him. Like a true Hero, Brody was larger than life. Well over six and a half feet tall, he was corded with thick muscle and had little fat to him. He was the first man she had ever been with that was bigger than her, or didn't make her feel like a giant among dwarves. It was exhilarating. It was humbling. And it made her feel like a woman.

"Quit playing," she gasped as he ground against the hot core between her legs. He laughed softly but otherwise ignored her, taking his sweet time showering her body with affection. He placed soft kisses to her neck, her breasts, and up both her arms. And all the while he stroked her with his hands and his cock, stoking the fire burning deep in her belly.

Sparrow growled and dug her nails into the thick muscle of his shoulders. But he didn't react the way she had hoped: with a retaliatory snarl and a violent thrust of his hips that would seat him deep inside her. No, instead he let out a deep, throaty groan that sent a ripple of heat up her spine as he continued his slow, methodic seduction.

So she raked her nails down his arms to try and provoke him again. He simply smothered her mouth with his, his breath coming hard as he slid the whole length of his erection against her wet folds. She absolutely melted.

And then her hands were clutching desperately to his as he finally pushed inside her, slow and gentle and moving inch by agonizing inch. Gasping at the immense pressure of him against her, she threw her head back on the mattress and stretched under his weight. He gave her the time to fully appreciate just how big he really was, how thick his manhood was as he filled her to a tight fit.

"_Brody_…" she whined, arching her back as his hips finally met hers. She didn't have time to adjust before he was pumping into her with long, slow movements that stroked every part of the searing heat in her body. And still his calloused hands roamed over her, touching, petting, working her breasts in his strong grip.

Brody wasn't like men she had slept with in the past. He used his whole body, not just his hips and his dick. His toes dug into the mattress for support as his calves flexed and his thighs contracted, his washboard abs growing taught to bury his cock in her, all while his back and arms drew her body into his. And on the withdrawal he was like a giant coil going loose, resting for the slightest moment to gather energy before he flexed again.

And the whole time she could feel his legs against hers, the soft peppering of hair on his chest teasing at her breasts while his stubbled jaw scratched enticingly against her throat. He used his whole body to stimulate her tactilely, while his voice came in throaty groans and grunts that did the job on the audio front.

The bed started to creak with the tempo he set, the whole frame rocking. They both laughed at the sound of it, before they were too preoccupied with each other to care. She moved against him, hips rising to meet his as he pushed into her. Away with the retreat of his hips, to meet again with gasps of pleasure and groans of relief.

Her world as she knew it came to a surprising end, an orgasm plowing into her out of nowhere. Nails digging into his shoulders yet again, she groaned into the sweaty warmth of his neck as she desperately clung to him. Her stomach trembled with waves of contractions, her toes curling with complete and utter delight. And then Brody surged with strength, sitting back on his heels as he hauled her up with him.

Sparrow's voice left her in a hoarse cry of delight as her legs folded on either side of his, enabling her to use their strength to bounce herself up and down on his lap. His mouth kissed her desperately, hands clutching to her hips to pull her snug against him. It was a strange experience, wholly new to her and overwhelmingly stimulating. Because of it, she was able to ride out her orgasm until she practically collapsed against him.

Panting, she kissed him over and over again. "Lay back," she begged between quick kisses.

He crashed backwards on the mattress, those soft hazel eyes of his watching her warily through the bright crimson of his mask. She gave him a soft, coy little smile. She learned that second night back in Oakfield that he wasn't partial to being on the bottom like this. He had flat out refused by pinning her to the mattress with his big paw on her throat. So it was mildly surprising that he obeyed her so readily…

His eyes went wide behind his mask, his jaw dropping open in a soundless gasp as she moved against him. She laughed softly as his massive hands clutched at her hips, and a vein bulged in his neck as he lifted his head to watch where their bodies met. "Shit," he cursed, pulling up one of his legs so he could brace a foot against the mattress.

Sparrow had difficulty not screaming along with the thunder as he used the new found leverage to pump into her. That was definitely new for her, too. "You're supposed to just lay there," she panted.

"Am I doing something wrong?" he purred, voice low and dark and mildly threatening. It sent a ripple of excitement through her whole body. "I can stop…"

"No!" she gasped, more desperately than she had intended. His thin lips turned up in a lop sided smile, before he reached up to grab the back of her head and pull her down for a kiss.

When he broke away with another harsh curse, she pushed him down soundly against the mattress and rocked against him. It was a lot like riding a horse, really. She squeezed with her thighs, using them to push herself up and back…and as she came down she rocked forward on his cock with a firm thrust of her hips. He caught on quickly, head slamming back into the mattress with a groan as he moved to meet her.

When she sat up and leaned backwards, ever so slowly, he barked a short groan and dug his fingers into her hips. Smiling softly to herself, she watched as he writhed uncomfortably underneath her, so obviously enjoying what she was doing and hating that he hadn't come yet. Veins were popping out in stark relief on the inside of his arms and on his neck, his face turning red as he gasped breathlessly with his strain.

But he refused to move his hands from her hips to bring on the swift orgasm she knew he could, by just wrapping those huge paws of his around her throat…

He yanked her back down for a kiss, his arms wrapping around her and holding her tight against him. Now both his feet were pressed flat to the mattress, his hips thrusting desperately into her as she was reduced to holding on for dear life all over again. They were both panting and moaning as she grabbed his face between her hands, kissing his chin, his mouth, his bruised nose. She pressed her lips to his cheeks and his eyelids, all while he panted and cursed under his breath.

He didn't even stop thrusting into her as her fingers slid under the edge of his mask.

"Don't," he choked out breathlessly.

"Please," she whispered against his lips.

"No," he snarled, trying to lean his head away from her hands.

"I won't look," she begged, her own voice soft and frail between panting gasps. He was starting to get rough, his hips pounding into her ruthlessly. Every time he did, her breasts bounced and sapped her breath from her lungs. "I promise." She squeezed her eyes shut as if to demonstrate, sealing the promise with a sultry kiss.

This time, as her fingers slid under the bright crimson cloth, he didn't pull away. Not even when her fingers found the scars it hid, and traced them along his forehead and down his temple. One split right through his eyebrow and curved away just in time to miss his eye. She just had time to wonder how he got them, before his own hand tore the cloth from his head.

Gasping in delight as he slammed his hips into her, she clutched his head against the hollow of her throat. He was ratcheting himself up into a new plane of torturous delight, his whole body absolutely trembling with the pent up energy he yearned to release. It was gloriously sexy, she thought, that he had such patience and self-control over himself to delay the inevitable. There was only one way he would be coming tonight, and it seemed he was dead set against it…

His teeth bit down on her neck. Hard. Her eyes flashed open as it sent a jolt of pleasure straight to her clit, and rocketed her right over the edge and into another orgasm. She couldn't help it as she hurried to bury her face against his head—she drank in the sight of his thick head of curly dark hair. Caught the sight of a set of five scars—claw marks?—raking across the side of his head. If his hair hadn't been wet and stuck to his skull, she would have never seen them.

"Brody!" she screamed, arching backwards as her orgasm took over.

He rushed to sit up with her, hands grasping her butt firmly as his mouth found her neck again. And this time, as he growled savagely into her flesh and clamped his teeth down, he came.

Sweet gods, the moment was glorious. He absolutely exploded, his strong arms straining under her hands as he pulled her hips down to his with every ferocious thrust. He was all ruthless, raw masculine power as he came. And with one final thrust that sheathed him firmly to the hilt, he was done.

He crashed back on the mattress with a relieved groan, his chest rising and falling with great heaves—Sparrow lying against it. They both took a few moments to catch their breaths, too tired and relaxed to even pet each other like they usually did. Sparrow just stared blankly at a spot on the wall, her ear pressed flat to his chest and listening to his racing heart.

Finally, Brody let out a victorious chuckle. "Surprised you, didn't I?"

She nodded silently, his voice reverberating through his chest and in her ear.

He made a sound akin to a pleased moan, before he gently rolled them both over, her head tucked snuggly under his chin as he wrapped himself around her. With a huge yawn, she nuzzled the fine dusting of hair on his chest, tangling her legs with his. They were silent for so long that Sparrow thought he had fallen asleep, and she was just starting to doze off…

"I was a trader's son before I joined the Society," he spoke softly into the darkness.

She fought to blink back the sleep that weighted her eyelids. "Hm?"

"My family owned a shop in Bowerstone North, among all the noble's houses. We were minor nobles, really. Just a simple merchant family that somehow amassed enough wealth to be considered upper class."

She was still and silent as he spoke, catching on to the hollow tone of his voice.

"But we still ran our own caravan in person. Every couple of months, we'd all pack up into the wagons with all sorts of various goods and head off to Oakfield to trade. We'd hit all the little towns on the way and buy the local specialties. Black diamonds, hand crafted lutes, swords with blue tempered steel… Any of Albion's best and rarest.

"It was early spring, and we were doing a routine route from Oakfield back home. That old dirt road that arcs towards Westcliffe?" he paused, waiting for her to respond.

"The one that goes by that waterfall?" she replied sleepily.

Brody laughed softly. "Yes. Beautiful, isn't it? We used to camp there for a night. All the caravan kids and I would go play in the water. It was a gorgeous day. Warm for spring, mid eighties. Not a cloud in the sky. Everyone set up camp for the evening without so much as a worry. Cook fires were going full swing, and a bard that had joined the caravan started playing. It was great."

"What happened?" she murmured, nuzzling his chest. Idly, her fingers swirled little patterns against his damp skin.

She fell still when she felt the tremble in his body. Not from her touch, but from what he was remembering.

"We didn't know anything was wrong," he croaked past a suddenly tight throat. "We were just being kids. Splashing around and everything."

Slowly she pulled away from him, looking up to watch as his jaw worked to grind his molars together. He didn't seem to care that she was looking at him without his mask on—that she could finally see all of the handsome face that he hid for so long. His hazel eyes were staring off into the distance, seeing another world entirely. His strong brows were furrowed over his hard eyes, the deep tan of his face colored pink from their recent exertion. He was so handsome…

"The bard stopped playing," he said at last. "Cut off right in the middle of my favorite song. Things just got really quiet for a moment, as if the whole caravan was confused why he would stop. And then the women started screaming."

"Brody…"

He shook his head slightly, to silence her as much as to give himself courage. "I was the only one that didn't run back right away, you know. All the other kids, they tore off through the underbrush to get back to the caravan and see what was happening. The older ones had crossbows. They thought they could help. They thought it was just hobbes; they weren't unusual around those parts.

"But then they started screaming, too. And I hid, Sparrow," his voice cracked, the Adam's apple in his throat working to swallow past a dry throat. "I hid in the bushes until it was all over. It seemed like forever, listening to the men die. The women weren't so lucky. They got used for hours. And I just stayed in my hidey hole, cowering the whole time."

Sparrow was silent as she started to stroke at his chest again. It was just a soft touch, but it seemed to help him. He looked down at her suddenly, eyes watery and throat swallowing convulsively. She kissed his cleft chin.

"The bandits passed right by my spot when they finally moved on. It was almost night time, and it's never good to stay near so much blood after dark. I nearly suffocated myself with my own hands I was so scared that they could hear me breathing. They were our guards—all twelve of them. Fourth time that year we had traveled with that particular crew and I don't think any of us suspected a thing. They took two wagons. They did all that damage just to take two of our fourteen wagons.

"When I couldn't hear them anymore, I finally went back. They ransacked the whole place. Every man was dead. The women lay broken and beaten without even a shred of clothing, dying in the muck. I couldn't help them. I couldn't even approach them, I was so scared. And all around me my friends…" he choked, before swallowing and continuing. "They had even raped the little girls."

Sparrow felt her heart breaking for him.

"I found my mother," he let out a short, sharp laugh of pain. "She was the worst off. They had mutilated her while she was still alive. She had bled out. You would have loved her, she was so sweet and beautiful and pure…

"Anyway, night came and I couldn't leave. I was in shock, I guess. I just sat there at my mother's wagon, trying to put her clothes back on and put her to bed. I was thirteen; my voice hadn't even started to change yet."

"Clarissa's age," Sparrow offered absently.

He nodded. "I was covered in my mother's blood when the balverine came. It was so busy gorging on the other corpses that it didn't even pay any attention to me. But it kept moving closer to my mother. So I went into our wagon, and found her rifle. It was an ancient piece of shit that used to belong to her grandfather, but she always kept it clean and loaded when we were on the road. I didn't hesitate to pull the trigger."

"Oh, Brody…"

He turned his head slightly, so that she could see the side of his face that had been hidden in the pillows. The scars started at the midline of his forehead, at first just one cruel slashing line and then a second paralleling it. A third started just above his strong brow line, blazing a bare path through his eyebrow and along the bone structure of his eye socket. Two more scars joined over his temple, where the inside of the balverine's claws had finally made contact with his skull. Slowly, he parted his hair so she could see how each claw had torn all the way to the back of his head.

"And these?" she asked softly, her hands finding the five-fingered scars that marked his chest, one of his hips…a long thigh…his stomach. She knew there was a long set down his back. "I had assumed that you got them as an adult, traveling on a contract…"

He nodded with a grim smile. "It got its jaws stuck on my rifle, or I'm sure it would have killed me."

"You _killed_ it?"

Another short nod. "First time I ever used Will. I didn't know what happened. One minute I had this balverine pinning me to the ground about to gut me and the next there was this bright flash of light and the beast was fried to a crisp."

She propped herself up on one elbow to look down at him, watching as his eyes wandered past her again. "You called lightning."

Smiling grimly, he placed a soft kiss to the tops of her breasts. "Some traders found me in the morning. They helped me bury the dead and burn the balverine. Even cleaned all my wounds. But they left me there in the wilderness to die. They thought I was going to turn into one; didn't have the balls to kill a little boy, though."

"I'm glad they didn't."

"It would have been a much kinder thing to do," he snarled under his breath. "Instead I was left wandering through the wilderness, starved and delirious from the infection. I don't even know how I did it myself, but I got to Westcliffe and stowed away on a ship heading for Bloodstone. Before the week was out I was on my knees in front of the master and begging him to take me as a pupil in exchange for a contract on those guards.

"Imagine his surprise when I didn't turn and the infection didn't kill me. Hah, he knew I was a Hero long before I even fancied the thought. But he carried through and Steve brought twelve heads back for me. I still have the skulls on display in my room. The _only_ trophies I have of any mark."

They fell quiet for a while, her eyes watching as he just stared at seemingly nothing. But he wasn't trembling any more, and his breathing seemed under control. Whatever memories he was seeing now weren't as bad as the one of the destruction of his world.

"The last person to ever call me Brody before you came along was my mother," he said at last. "The whole Society knows my birth name, but they never called me by it. It was like they knew I didn't want someone saying it. Master asked me what I wanted to be called, but I didn't care. So he called me Fox, because I had narrowly slipped through so many tight situations."

She ran her fingers through his hair and he finally looked back up to her. "Thank you for telling me," she murmured, leaning over to press a kiss to his forehead, right against his scars.

He let out a huge, weary sigh before pulling her back into his arms. She snuggled against his immense strength, secretly loving the way he made her feel so small. "Least I could do after I tried to kill you."

She laughed softly against his chest. "It was hardly a try. You had already made up your mind not to before you entered my home, didn't you?"

She felt him nod. "I didn't know it until I let go of you. I guess I have a mommy problem, but I couldn't leave your children without theirs. Not to mention, you're not my type of mark."

"Curious, were we?" she smiled and reveled in the feel of his chest rumbling with his laugh. His arms squeezed her in a gentle hug.

"I guess I was. You're the only other Hero I've ever heard of. I thought I just wanted the challenge but more than anything, I suppose, I just really want to…see what you were like."

"Disappointed?"

"Gods, no," he ran a calloused palm down her side, leaving goose bumps in his wake. Huskily, he murmured in her ear, "You are the most intriguing woman alive."

She chuckled seductively, running the soft interior of her thigh along his. "Is that so?"

"Mm," he purred low, before rolling them both over so he was on top. Sparrow let out a feminine giggle as she felt his growing need pressing in to her again. "Let me show you how intriguing…"

* * *

A/N:

So here's how I basically picture Brody: tall, dark, and gorgeously handsome with ridiculously rugged good looks and a big ass scar. Heart~


End file.
